Oliver Irons and the Unwanted War (Book 2)
by CzarSoza
Summary: Oliver Irons was a solider. He knew he was going to be one, even as a kid: His father was a marine, as was his grandfather, and so on. And a war was coming, between Giants and Gods, another spoke in the wheel that's been turning for Eons. And Oliver was right in the middle of it all.
1. Run Boy, Run

(Merry Christmas.)

-O-

Oliver's new world was one of pain, heat and mind-numbing terror. He was vaguely aware that he was running. The dull, jolted impacts of his feet hitting hard rock was now an ever-present factor of this second-life, like the scorching hot air that burned his throat with every breath. The landscape was like that of Mars; flat, hard and rust-red, stretching on until it reached the horizon. In the distance he could see other souls being punished, separated from his own personal hell by a long chain of barbed wire fencing, high as two men stacked on top of each other and thick as a hedge.

There was no sun, no stars, nothing in the sky but an endless expanse of inky blackness that Oliver swore was getting closer to him every time he looked up at it. If time even worked the same way in the Underworld as it does on Earth, that is. For all he knew, this was just one day of torment being replayed for all eternity. As though they could hear his thoughts, his pursuers let out their terrible, pitched screech far behind him. Even though the distance must have been at least half a mile, the sound still made Oliver's ears hurt and he tripped on some of the uneven terrain.

Instinctively moving to throw out his hands to catch himself, Oliver remembered too late that he was missing his left arm below the elbow. Though he managed to slow his fall somewhat with his right hand, his face still exploded in pain against the hellish red ground, and he heard a snap which he assumed was his nose bone shattering against the rock. For a moment he lay there, face down in the dirt and stone, dazed as blood and snot poured out of his nostrils. And for a moment, as strange as it was, he felt peaceful, accepting his fate. Then, the distant screeching of his tormentors stabbed an icy spike of fear into his soul and suddenly he was running again. He didn't even remember standing up.

Oliver risked a glance behind him to see how close they had gotten and his heart almost stopped. He could see them, flying low to the landscape, seven silver hunting falcons bigger than cars. And they were growing larger by the second. Oliver turned and poured on the speed, gasping, legs burning, arm pumping, his eyes fixed on the horizon as blood poured down his face in thick, hot rivers. He had no idea what was there, but it had to be better than this. And even though he knew he'll never find out, he clung to that hope like a drowning man to a piece of driftwood, even as the tidal wave approached to devour him. The falcons screeched again, and they were so close this time that the sound hit him like a truck, throwing him to the ground once again and busting open his nose even worse, the pain growing exponentially from the second impact.

And then they were on him.

Talons dug into his back and tore flesh like tissue paper. Beaks dove and ripped chunks of meat out of his neck and arm and legs. The pain should've made him black out or go into shock or _something, anything._ But no. For some reason, and he knew the reason, Oliver felt himself being torn apart. Every nerve was being pulled and stretched and burned as he thrashed on the ground, his throat burning, his lungs feeling as though they were filled with broken glass. Oliver realized only then that he was screaming, but the sound was drowned out by the feeding of the birds that were sicced on him. His right leg suddenly went numb as two of the falcons ripped it off and started fighting each other, making the weirdest damned growling noise Oliver had ever heard and screeching even louder than before. It was about that time when his ears started bleeding and his hearing began to leave him.

And as before, the world began to fade, his screams dying down, the pain numbing into blissful oblivion. As before, the falcons who had ripped off his leg had finally settled their grievance joined the rest of them in finishing off the mortal who had become their prey.

And, as before, he remembered the 'trial', a thousand lifetimes ago.

* * *

 _He didn't remember the trip into the Underworld itself very clearly, but he remembered wondering one thing; Where's Marvin? Even though Oliver was dead, that was at the back of his mind during the trip across the Styx. Whenever he looked up there was a lot of black fog, a black river and a black ferryman with a grin that gleamed like a thousand diamonds._

 _"You're a right special one, ain't ya?" He had asked Oliver when they were almost to the other side. Up until then the ferryman had been silent._

 _"What?" Oliver asked him in return._

 _He must have looked pretty funny, because he laughed at him then, rowing the empty boat they were in across the black waters of the Styx. "Normally, see, there'd be a right arseload of the damned all crammed into this here ferry with us," he nodded at all of the empty seats that Oliver had only just noticed, "but mi'lord Hades told me, 'Charon, this ones to be taken directly and personally to the Pavilion for Judgment.' Now, why'd you suppose that is, eh?"_

 _There was no point in lying. "I was loyal to the wrong Immortals, it seems," Oliver answered._

 _The ferryman just laughed again, "You sell yourself short, Oliver Irons."_

 _Oliver looked at him with a frown, "How do you know my name?"_

 _The ferryman just looked into his eyes, and for a second he morphed into a black-clad skeleton with bottomless sockets, that grin staying exactly the same, "You're the Godkiller, mate. There ain't nothing alive, dead or anywhere in-between that doesn't know who you are."_

 _The ferry landed on the black shores of the Styx with the grinding of gravel against wood. Immediately upon their landing, three bat-winged demons descended on them, with flaming whips in their hands. The Furies. The one in the middle hissed out to the ferryman, and her voice grated against Oliver's ears like nails on a chalkboard, "We'll take it from here, Charon."_

 _As Oliver stepped off the boat, Charon, back in his human form, gave him a wink and said to him, "Good luck, Godkiller."_

 _As soon as the ferry was back in the waters of the Styx, Oliver heard a snapping noise from somewhere above him, very close. Before he could react, a band of searing hot pain encircled his throat, making him gasp and fall to his knees. The whip just tightened and an odd, staggered hissing noise filled the air. Laughter._

 _The fury with the whip around his throat just yanked him forward, like tugging on a leash, and said, "Come, mortal. You don't want to keep Lord Hades waiting, do you?"_

 _Oliver was too focused on trying to breath to answer her with a verbal reply, so he just shook his head and tried to keep up with the bat-winged hags. They led him onto what looked like a road of some kind, with a massive black tent dominating the immediate area in front of them. Snaking out behind the structure were three lines, all connecting to one of the three sections of the underworld. Elysium was the farthest away and the smallest, a gated community not unlike something you'd see in middle-high-class America, with a sparkling lake in the center of it with three tiny islands inside. The Fields of Asphodel was the largest of the three sections, an almost endless expanse of black grass and bowing trees. Even here Oliver could see the uncountable souls milling around, shuffling in the darkness. And then, reluctantly, he looked at the last section of the Underworld. The Fields of Punishment. He looked at the barren red rock, at the barbed wire, heard the screams even from such a great distance away._

 _The Fury with the whips grinned down at him with a mouthful of jagged yellow teeth, "Already looking forward to your new home, aren't you?"_

 _Oliver couldn't answer. The full weight of what was happening hit him like a ton of bricks. He was dead and was going to Hell. Actual Hell. Eternal torment._

 _He wanted to cry, to break down and refuse to move another inch. 'This isn't fair', he wanted to scream at the Furies, at the sky, at the whole damn world, 'I deserve better than this!' He wanted to fight it, to try and run for salvation. He wanted to avoid the consequences of what he had done._

 _That was what he wanted to do._

 _Instead, he shoved the tears down, grit his teeth and shuffled towards the judgement that awaited him._

 _The Judgement Pavilion was huge, bigger than any structure Oliver had ever seen, and inside was just as massive. There were three empty thrones on a raised dias at the far end of the room, with a bronze brazier the size of a house in the center, belching red-hot fire into the tent. The rest of it was sparse, with only a layer of canvas separating the ground from the occupant's feet. Oliver guessed that didn't matter much when you were dead. As the procession approached the dias, the Fury uncoiled the whip around Oliver's throat, letting him take in a fresh breath. As he rubbed the skin across his throat he raised his gaze to the throne in the center of the three. In it, where there wasn't before, was Hades, in a flowing black robe with screaming faces sewn into the fabric. His long, inky black hair was shoulder length, his skin albino, his eyes like two shards of obsidian, shining with the gleam of madness or genius. He lounged on the throne, one arm propping up his head, and when he spoke Oliver could almost feel his words pour over him like oil, "So, you're the Godkiller, hm?" He looked at Oliver up and down, "You don't look like much to me."_

 _Oliver just licked his lips and looked at the two other empty thrones, "Aren't there supposed to be three judges?"_

 _Hades just smiled at him, the expression looking almost grotesque on the Death God's face, "Oh, that? My Lord Brother decided that this was a special case. Gave me permission to judge you personally. How nice of him, eh?"_

 _"I didn't even kill Artemis!" Oliver shouted, and immediately regretted it. Even though it was true, he felt shitty for throwing the blame onto Marvin, but he was grasping at straws. He knew Hades wasn't going to give him mercy, not now, but some irrational part of his brain was getting desperate._

 _Hades just shrugged, brushing something off of the front of his robes, "No, but someone needs to take the blame. We can't put Fire into Tartarus because he's the one giving mortals the ability to see through the Mist," he grimaced, "including Demigods. If we put him in the Pit, that's gone. Hard to fight monsters if you can't see them coming."_

 _He leveled a bony finger at Oliver, "So that leaves you, Oliver Irons, as the scapegoat. I'd apologize, but I'm not sorry."_

 _A black beam of energy surged from his fingertip, and the next thing Oliver knew he was flat on his back, looking up at an endless black sky, the distant sound of screeching rapidly approaching..._

* * *

When Oliver opened his eyes, the falcons were gone. He was flat on his back, looking up at the ceiling of the Underworld, back in one piece. He took a breath and held it as he climbed to his feet. Despite everything, despite all the evidence to the contrary, he hoped that maybe, just maybe, this time was going to be different. Almost immediately his hope was swept aside when he heard the first screech. He let out his breath in a long sigh and prepared to start running when something on the ground caught his eye.

A gun. Not just any gun, either, _his gun_ , his USP Match. It was on the ground, just sitting there, next to a bandolier weighed down with magazines, frag grenades and a knife. Beside the weapons was a set of cargo pants, a plain white shirt, what looked like steel toed boots and a folded piece of paper. After a moment of confused staring he scrambled over and snatched the paper off of the ground and unfolded it with a bit of difficultly. On it were two words and a signature in gold ink;

 **It's Time.**

- **your Patron.**

Oliver looked at those words for a long time, until a screech kicked him into survival mode. The pants and shirt went on first, then the badnolier around his shoulder and waist and finally the boots. It took him more time than normal due to his missing arm, but he managed the last knot just as the falcons came over the horizon.

Oliver took up his gun and took a breath, his jaw set. This time _was_ going to be different after all, he thought to himself with a wiry grin.

He leveled the handgun at the falcons that had been tormenting him for what felt like a thousand lifetimes, aimed for a moment, and opened fire.

The first bullet caught the first falcon in the neck, and it exploded into a cloud of monster dust and feathers. Oliver couldn't keep a smile from his face as the rest of the birds, confused at the sudden attack, failed to get out of the way of the rest of the bullets. The screeches of terror were met by the barks of Oliver's handgun and, one by one, went down until all that was left was a pile of dust, feathers and assorted talons. Oliver ejected the magazine, tucked his handgun under his other arm, slid a fresh one into the port and racked back the bolt by sticking the gun between his knees and pushing forward.

He looked at the pile of monster debris with a great deal of satisfaction and then shifted his gaze to the horizon, at the other shore of the Styx, almost on the other side of the Underworld. Somewhere on that opposite shore, he knew, was his way out of hell. His way back to Marvin. Hades said that they couldn't put him in Tartarus, so that left Olympus as the most likely location for Marvin's cell.

"I'm on my way, man," He muttered to himself as he started his jog across hell, gun in his hand, "I'm on my way."


	2. The Crucible

(Since it's that magical time of year, I've decided to double up on the first part of this book. And I really liked writing this chapter. Contains a bit of real strong language, but it's nothing Oliver hasn't said before.)

-O-

Now that he wasn't running for his quasi-life, Oliver could take in hell at his own brisk, if relatively relaxed, pace. The screams reached him from every angle, and the heat was so intense that he had to tie his new shirt around his head to soak up the sweat spreading across his brow. Still, the falcons who had been chasing him down were dead, so Oliver considered that a victory, if a small one. He eventually came upon the mass of barbed wire that separated his area off from the rest of the underworld, tall as three men and thick as a hedge. He hadn't seen any kind of security on his way to the fence, but he felt it in his bones that it was only a matter of time before someone realized something wasn't right.

Oliver considered the fence with pursed lips. Climbing it was obviously out of the question, as was going around, and he didn't think he had enough time to dig a trench under it on account of his missing arm and a lack of tools. So, he had to go through it. Holstering his handgun and plucking a grenade from off of his new bandolier he bit his lip and estimated the thinnest part of the fence in front of him. Finding it he grimaced. Even the thinnest part was too thick for him to toss the grenade into the fence, it would just bounce off and all that force would be wasted. And if he placed the grenade against the base of the fence from his side, almost half of the power would be wasted, sending fragments in his direction. The ideal position for the explosive would be in the center of the fence, where all of that energy would be concentrated into blasting apart the fence.

And since he couldn't toss the grenade into optimal positioning, that meant manual placement was necessary.

He placed the grenade on the ground and unwrapped his shirt from around his head and pulled it back onto his frame, pulling the sleeve of his good arm as far as it would go without covering his hands. It was thin, too thin to block out barbed wire, but it would have to do. He glared at the fence and wished he had a pair of good gloved, then he snorted when he looked down and realized he only needed one. With a grimace Oliver pulled the pin out of the grenade with his teeth, holding the spoon in place and, with a deep breath in and out, began to reach into the fence.

The heat of hell poured over him, making beads of sweat sprout across his forehead once more, running down his arm and worming into his palm. His shirt clung to him in soggy clumps, and blood roared in his ears, along with the distance sound of beating wings. A quick glance confirmed his fears. A Fury, no mistaking that silhouette, on it's way to investigate the disturbance. With a sound not unlike leaves the sharpened teeth of steel snagged at his shirt and sliced into his hand, turning the metal leaves scarlet in his wake. Even though the pain was exquisite, Oliver just kept his breathing steady and focused. When he was shoulder-deep into barbed wire he took one last breath, held it, then dropped the grenade, the spoon leaping from it's containment with a _ping._ Letting the breath out in a hiss Oliver moved to pull his hand out and retreat.

The mental clocked began to tick in his head.

 _Five._

He would've pissed himself, if he had any fluids to spare, when he felt his shirt sleeve catch on the barbed wire.

 _Four._

Oliver began to yank and pull on his sleeve, desperate, as the sound of the wings grew louder.

 _Three._

He heard the screech of glee as the Fury spotted him, heard the crack of her whip, felt the heat from it even from the distance between them.

 _Two._

With a kind of desperate strength, a surge of adrenaline and base instinct that took him out of the equation entirely, Oliver _reached back into the fence_ , wrapped his bloody fingers around the cooking grenade, and ripped his arm free, throwing himself backwards and hurling the grenade at the sound of wings.

 _One._

The grenade soared past the Fury, who easily dodged the projectile with a swoop, whip aflame in her hand.

 _Zero._

Oliver barely had time to turn his back when the explosive went off. It hit him like a stiff kick in the back, knocking him breathless. He heard the fury screech in pain and confusion, and the satisfying _whomp_ as she crashed into the ground. He clambered to his feet, the stinging pain blossoming across his arm and hand dulled by the adrenaline surging through his veins. The Fury's left wing was shredded like paper, and her whip was knocked loose from her clawed grasp. She snarled at him, her maw an endless well of yellow, needle-like teeth, before she leaped forward through the air with sudden power, claws spread out wide.

Acting on reflex alone Oliver dove out of the way of the Fury's mad leap. He felt her fly past him, the air in her wake smelling like sulfur, felt her attempt at a slash kiss his neck, and heard her crash into the barbed wire fence. Oliver stood, turned and let out a bark of harsh laughter. Whatever the fence was made out of, it was capable of hurting monsters, it seemed; the bat-hag was tangled in a web of rusty, razor-sharp netting. She had hit the fence with such force that she had actually blown a hole through it, about big enough to drive a very small car into. The monster thrashed on the ground and screeched and tried to free herself, but only succeeded in getting herself further ensnared.

Oliver just watched for a moment, the blood in his ears slowly dying down, his heart slowly returning to a normal beat. And then he started to laugh. It sounded crazy, the laugh of a madman, but he didn't care. It was the releasing of tension, of the tight coil of red-hot panic that had been building in his chest finally unwinding and melting. So, as the Fury roared and screeched in pain, Oliver laughed for his life.

It didn't last long.

As the adrenaline in his veins returned to normal levels, he began to feel the consequences of his mad escape. His shirt sleeve was torn to ribbons, almost soaking in the blood from the myriad of long, shallow cuts that now ran along his arm. In a few places entire stripes of skin were pealed off like a carrot, exposing the bright crimson sinew and muscle to the hot, unforgiving air of the Underworld, stinging as though he had poured lemon juice into the wound. Oliver hissed and, sparing the Fury only a spiteful glance from the corner of his eye, moved to walk through the fence when his foot made contact with something on the ground.

The Fury's whip. It was deactivated, so it seemed to be a normal weapon, maybe seven feet long, made of braided leather with a leather handle. He felt a thrill run through his chest as he picked it from off the ground, could almost feel it's burned cord tighten around his throat, a phantom pain from a thousand lives ago. Though his hand stung with pain, he gripped the instrument of pain tightly, looking at the Fury on the ground. She hissed back at him, but while it held anger, the rage that he had become accustomed to by now, it also contained a note that Oliver didn't think possible for any monster, least of all a Fury.

He heard fear. The fear of a trapped animal.

As he looked at the monster, Oliver felt something in his chest, in his heart. As he remembered what it put him through, something cold and black poured through his veins and soothed the pain in his hand and arm. He thought of the phantom pain around his throat, of the pain the Fury had given to countless others as he considered the weapon in his hand. Then the blackness in his heart made his arm move, made him snap the Fury's whip and coat it in wicked tongues of flame. It made him snarl at the monster trapped in front of him, and it made him throw the whip forward. The weapon seemed to be alive; the cord wrapped itself around it's previous master's throat, releasing a screech of pain from it's maw. The Fury tried to reach up and pry the whip from it's neck, but it was too ensnared in the wire to escape. Oliver yanked back the whip and let the blackness out in a scream, a primal cry of pure hatred that made his blood roar and boil.

The Fury exploded into yellow dust with a final screech of pain, the cord of the whip falling to the ground in a heap.

For a long time Oliver just breathed, taking and releasing ragged breaths as the flames on the whip died down. With a final shuddering sigh he considered the weapon in his hand and, after a moment of thought, crudely wrapped the cord around the handle and shoved it into his pocket. He swallowed to wet his dry throat, set his gaze on the horizon and started walking, carefully picking through the monster dust and tangled strings of barbed wire as the heat of hell bore down on him.

* * *

Oliver wasn't sure how long he'd been walking when he came upon the black shores of the Styx. The water, black as ink and twice as thick it seemed, surged along the banks, occasionally splashing up against the sand. Oliver looked east, west, but no sign of the ferryman Charon. He cursed and glanced around his side of the shore, hoping to find something that could help him, to no avail. He felt panic rise up his throat but he shoved it down, his fingers curling into a tight, painful fist that dripped with his own blood. This couldn't be it. No. He refused to believe it, that Gaea would release him with no means of crossing the Styx. Anger swelled in his chest as he shouted across the waters and nothing in particular, voice dry and cracking from so little use, "Gaea! I know you can hear me, I know you're watching," he waited a beat before continuing, "I know you want me to escape, so help me do it!"

The Underworld continued on as normal for a few seconds, heedless of Oliver's cries. But then, from nowhere, the air seemed to chill as a voice slithered into the back of his skull.

 _Well, aren't you a bold one to say my name like that._

Oliver grimaced briefly at the feeling of Gaea entering his mind. _Are you going to help me or not?_

The Earth goddess laughed. _Of course I am, child._

As though they were waiting for the cue, some black sand began to move and shift, seemingly on there own accord. They pressed together, piled atop one another and eventually compressed into a small, canoe-like shape. The sand shape glowed soft purple for a moment, and the dull whine of magic filled the air. When the light died a small boat made of black stone rested in front of him, the water of the Styx lapsing against the front.

 _There. Get in._

Oliver, seeing no real other option, clambered into the boat and took a seat on the cold stone bench inside of it. As soon as he sat down the craft surged forward, alive, and began to sail across the Styx at a good pace. Oliver, grateful for the respite, let out a sigh and allowed himself a moment to relax. He wanted to ask the Earth goddess a thousand questions, all at once, but let the idea go. He didn't want to focus on any of that right now. Right now he had to focus on escaping. He looked to the horizon and saw his salvation; an elevator door, shining bright on a hill overlooking the entirety of the Underworld. Despite himself, he drew his handgun out of his bandolier and flicked the safety on and off. A habit, but a comforting one.

He decided to ask his patron one question, one that seemed both reasonable and useful to know the answer to. _When I get outta here, what am I supposed to do?_

 _Such confidence, Oliver Irons. Nothing says for certain that you'll escape the Underworld._

 _Ma'am, will you please answer the goddamn question._ Normally, Oliver would've treated the goddess with more respect, but his nerves were fried. He just wanted to be done with all this already.

But again, she simply sounded amused. _Polite and rude at the same time. I did chose the perfect mortal, didn't I? If you do escape, you will be retrieved by another agent of mine._ _A fellow member of your order, seeking to atone for her cowardice._

At that Oliver felt his heart jump in his chest. Another Keeper? God, he thought he was the last one. He glared at the elevator door with new resolve. _Alright. I'll-_

Before he could get another thought through, the black water in front of Oliver's boat exploded with an ear-grating scream like nothing he's ever heard.

A skeleton, it's bones coated in the thick, inky water of the Styx, clawed it's way up over the bow of the small boat. It's fingernails were claws, it's teeth all sharpened to a razor point, it's eyes burning sockets of purple fire. It grinned at him for a moment before it opened it's jaws to scream again, only to be interrupted the crack of Oliver's gun and a .45 caliber bullet punching a hole through it's forehead and exploding out the back of it's skull. Oliver stood up and turned to scan for more when something slammed into him and sent him to the floor of the boat. He looked up at the skeleton in horror, it's jaws wide and dripping with water that stung Oliver's face, at the clean hole in the middle of it's forehead. It was about to bite down when Oliver regained his sense and shoved the barrel of his gun into the creature's ribcage, slightly angled it upward and emptied the magazine. It's body jerked and spasamed with every trigger pull before it shuddered one last time and dissolved into black water, burning Oliver's skin where it touched and pooling into the bottom of the boat.

Oliver got to his feet and was immediately surprised by another explosion of stinging black water to his right, a little farther away. The skeleton thing damn near flew out of the water, arms splayed out in a disturbingly similar position as the Fury. Without ammunition, Oliver relied on muscle memory and twitch reaction, thinking up an idea as the monster hung in the air, hissing like a broken valve. Just as the monster was about to reach him and sink it's teeth into him he brought his handgun down like a hammer. The weight of the gun combined with the force of Oliver's strike turned it's skull to powder against the black stone of the boat. The thing exploded into the same black water as the other one and sank back into the Styx.

Oliver barely had time to breath when he felt the weight in the boat shift behind him. Before he could turn around he felt two powerful, bony arms wrap around him, claws digging into his chest and shoulder. He heard a dry, grating sound that was too much like laughter before the skeleton sank it's fangs into the area between Oliver's neck and shoulder. It felt like acid was injected directly into the artery, and the searing, almost overwhelming pain nearly made Oliver black out right there. He could only keep on his feet and scream in agony as the skeleton pulled him back, back, back, leaning every further backwards off of the safety of the boat until the entire craft was tipping, threatening to capsize the whole damn thing. Oliver sluggishly tried to bring his handgun up to bear, but all he heard was the click of an empty magazine. He couldn't do anything else with it in his hand. It was useless. He was useless.

He dropped his USP Match, his favorite gun, the one that had seen him through thick and thin into the black, rushing water, and the sound of it splashing into the River Styx would reduce him to tears when he had time to think.

But now was not that time.

With the last of his strength Oliver reached behind him, grabbed the skeleton's protruding collarbone and heaved it forward, compressing his torso and putting every muscle he could spare into the action of flipping the monster over his back. It was fairly light, being mostly bone and air, but the cuts and long strips of skinless flesh on Oliver's arm screamed and swelled and threatened to burst as the monster was sent crashing into the opposite edge of the boat as the craft righted itself. The skeleton was smashed in half, the spine severed by the black stone of the boat, and it melted back into the Styx.

For a long second everything was quiet, the only sounds in the world the lapping of water against prow and the blood in his ears. Oliver collapsed to the floor, leaned heavily on the bench, looked at his arm. It was nasty. The exposed muscle and sinew were almost oozing out of the wounds that had revealed them, and Oliver found the appendage numb and slow to respond to any of his commands. The new wound at his shoulder and neck didn't hurt as much as he thought it should. It was more of a cold pins and needles feeling that was slowly spreading across his entire upper torso. That, he realized, was probably much worse that simple pain.

Despite everything that had just happened, Gaea still retained that pleasant note in her voice. _Very impressive, Oliver Irons. You've just earned your rest._

 _What the fuck were those things?_

 _Oathbreakers. Anyone who goes back against a binding promise ends up as one of them. One of those skeletons you just killed was once called Judas Iscariot, I believe. Quite infamous to a great many mortals, as I've heard it._

Oliver didn't even have the energy to be surprised. He just leaned his head against the cold stone of the boat and closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the soft, warm blanket of endless sleep begin to cover him. Then he thought about Marvin, the cage he must be in at Olympus, the time he must've spent in his own kind of hell, and Oliver forced his eyes back open.

"You have a duty, you worthless sonuvabitch," he mumbled to himself as he stood up, the opposite shore of the Styx finally coming into sight, "go do it."

The black sand grated against the boat as it beached, and Oliver drunkenly stumbled off of it, the cold pinpricky feeling reaching his right leg. He barely noticed the boat dissolve back into sand behind him, barely heard the whisper of good luck in the back of his mind before Gaea left him, was barely able to keep his salvation in sight as he stumbled towards it. He half expected a dragon or Cerberus or whatever the hell guarded the entrance of the Underworld to pop out of nowhere and rip him to shreds, but no. Just a barren stretch of red ground about a hundred yards long up a hill where his salvation rested on top of.

Oliver was in a daze for most of it, the adrenaline long since drained from his system. Half of his body was slowly going numb from that Oathbreaker's bite, his only good arm was torn to shreds, and his vision was going black around the edges. When he reached the elevator Oliver just sluggishly pressed the button once, twice, three times before the door opened with a cheerful _ding._ Like he was in a dream, Oliver stepped inside, pressed the only button on the panel, and promptly blacked out entirely.

When he came to he thought he had died again and was about to start screaming when he realized he was looking out into the lobby of some building, face down in the elevator, sunlight peaking in under the door of whatever building he was in. Oliver was stumbling for the door before he even knew he was on his feet, barely paying attention to the other smoky forms inside the dark lobby. When he opened the door he was blinded by the sunlight. It almost stung him like the waters of the Styx, burning like hell and for an instant of pure fear that he'll never forget thought this was just another layer of the Underworld, designed to trap and catch those few souls who managed to escape.

But then Oliver smelled the fresh, wonderful air, felt the breeze on the skin that wasn't numb, and he knew he was free. When he could finally see Oliver looked out over a city he was unfamiliar with in the middle of the most beautiful sunset he'd ever seen. Until his gaze was drawn to a massive, unmistakable sign in the distance. Hollywood.

He wanted to cry. To shout, to scream to run, everything all at once and then again just for the hell of it. For the first time in his lives Oliver understood what pure joy felt like. He swallowed his tears and looked at the street in front of him, only now noticing the very familiar car parked in front of him. Then he saw the rather small figure walking towards him, and he only managed to say something unintelligible before he tripped over an invisible brick and fell forward. He was caught by a pair of surprisingly strong arms for their frame.

The last thing Oliver saw before his vision went black for the second time in as many minutes was a girl's face, screwed up in a peculiar combination of concern and annoyance. She had short, spiky hair, as white as her skin and bright green eyes surrounded in black eye liner and shadow, making them glow.

The girl started to say something, but Oliver was already long gone in her arms.


	3. Fort Ignis

-O-

Oliver didn't know how long he was out for. He swam in and out of consciousness, catching snippets of random conversations and light before diving back into oblivion. He had no dreams, no visions of torment or falcons with sliver wings, though he almost would've preferred that to what he got; the bottom of an ink-black ocean, endless and thick as oil. He desperately clawing his way to the surface, lungs burning, arm pumping, panic building in his heart. Then, out of nowhere, he broke the surface.

Oliver almost choked on his first breath of fresh air, inhaling hard and jerking awake, eyes wide and alert, immediately taking in the room he found himself in. There seemed to be a few large windows in the room, but either it was night or the curtains were drawn because it was dark. Not quite pitch black, though. He could spot the outlines of a few other beds and some machinery that looked vaguely medical. Oliver's bed was the only one that was occupied, and the utter silence of the room made him on edge, like something was about to jump him. He moved to get up but felt something tug on his arm, at his elbow. He squinted and saw the stainless steel pole of an IV stand. A thin tube connected the bag's cocktail of chemicals to Oliver's vein in his arm. Deciding he didn't want to be on the drip anymore, Oliver reached out with his other arm to pluck it out. Then, rather abruptly, he realized he _had his other arm back._

He stared down, bug-eyed at the new appendage. In the sub-light of the room Oliver's eyes barely detected the glint of metal. Gold. A prosthetic of some kind. He imagined flexing the fingers on his left hand. Sure enough, the air filled with the soft clicking sound of tiny, shifting gears and motors and the fingers curled up. Released. Flexed. Released. Flexed. Convinced he wasn't having some kind of hallucination, he wondered who gave him the surgery, why they did it, where they brought him. Oliver let out a shuddering breath and plucked out the IV before shifting in the bed and planting his feet on the cool stone floor. One bridge at a time.

He moved to stand up but fell back onto the bed almost immediately, his head spinning, legs damn near giving out and sending him to the stone. He gathered his energy and stood up again, leaning heavily on the IV stand as a cane. All he was wearing was a pair of slightly too-small boxers, and the cold air kissed his skin as he shuffled across the room. There were two doors in the room, one directly across from him, a shaft of light underneath it, and one to his right, jarred open, dark.

He chose the latter of the two and, after covering half the distance across the floor, let go of the IV stand, confidence in his legs restored. His bare feet seemed to pound against the floor, every footfall like the dropping of a boulder, his heartbeat so loud it sounded like the drumbeat of an army march. Now that his eyes were adjusted, he could see that though the shafts of moonlight stabbing through the curtained windows were few and far-between, they seemed to shine like white sunlight. Oliver pushed the door open all the way, it's creaking hinges making him jump from the sudden loudness of it, and squinted to scan the room's interior. Toilet, sink, mirror. Bathroom. Oliver ran his fingers along the wall until they brushed against the light-switch and, with a moment of hesitation, flicked them on.

The LED lights set into the frame of the mirror damn near blinded him. Oliver brought his arm up and ducked his head underneath it, staring at the pristine white tiles at his feet. After his eyes adjusted to the new light level he looked up at the mirror, and immediately wished he didn't.

At first, Oliver didn't recognize himself. The person staring back at him in the mirror was a gaunt shadow of a man with long, unkempt grayish-white hair, like dirty snow and a thick brush of stubble covered his cheeks and jaw, the same color as his hair. His eyes were clear amber, like someone had replaced them with pieces of stained glass, and his skin was an unhealthy shade of gray, like he had a disease. Combined with the skeletal-looking left side of his face and the new, jagged scar on the right, Oliver looked profoundly _wrong_. Different, like he was gazing into an alternate dimension. For a moment he thought he was having a fever dream or a vision or _something._ But then his eyes traveled down the mirror and landed on the perfect circle of burned skin on his chest. Directly over his heart.

Oliver's breath stopped in his throat as the memories poured over him, the last moments of his life. He reached up and brushed the tips of his fingers against the edge of the new scar. As soon as skin met skin it felt like someone had driven a super-heated ice pick into the base of his skull. Before he could even scream his stomach heaved, his heart stopped and he was snatched away from his body from some unseen, unfelt current.

* * *

 _ **I was on a field.**_

 _ **Beautiful, green, lush, a small river bubbling through it.**_

 _ **Then I blink and it changes and I'm fighting someone.**_

 _ **My brother, but he's in the wrong color.**_

 _ **Why am I fighting him?**_

 _ **It doesn't matter, he'd dead now, I killed him.**_

 _ **I look around and everyone's fighting everyone.**_

 _ **The field is burning and the river is running red with blood and all I can think is w**_ _ **hy.**_

 _ **Why?**_

 _ **Why?**_

* * *

Oliver's head was pounding like thunder when he woke up on the floor of the bathroom. For a moment he lay there, trying to comprehend what he had just seen. Well, 'seen' wasn't quite the word for it. No. It was like he was _there,_ at the battle, in the middle of it. He could _hear_ the screams of the dying and the bark of gunfire, _felt_ the weapon become slick in his hands from sweat, _smelled_ the blood and smoke hang in the air, choking him.

Head throbbing, Oliver shuddered, took several deep breaths and rose to his feet, grabbing the sink with his left hand to pull himself up. Oliver let out a yelp as the porcelain shattered and he only barely saved himself from a concussion. He frowned and looked at his new arm, gleaming gold in the light. Stronger than before, he should've expected that. Oliver tried again, carefully, and pulled himself to his feet, startled at how he barely felt his own weight. Oliver stood up, spared the white-haired creature looking back in the mirror a single glance, and walked out of the bathroom.

Oliver didn't think he was out for very long. The shafts of moonlight were still in the same places, and he navigated to the second door, with the light and heat radiating from under it. As he approached it his ears picked up noise from beyond the door. Voices, the clattering of silverware against plates. Dinner. Now, all of a sudden, he felt hunger gnawing inside him, a low rumble almost shaking his whole body. Stepping through the door, eyes half-lidded to avoid another overload of light, his feet landed on warm, soft carpet. He felt the unmistakable feeling of firelight kissing his skin and decided to open his eyes fully, albeit slowly. The hallway he found himself in was long, with burgundy wallpaper and a matching carpet, candles hanging from the wall in small glass bowls bathing it in warmth and light. There was a fine wooden door at the far end of the hallway, a set of opened doors on the left and a closed set on the right. The smell of food, home-cooked and delicious, was wafting in from the open doors. Oliver padded down the hallway, only barely caring that his only piece of clothing was the boxers on his hips, and stopped just around the corner of the doors. He steeled his nerves, turned the corner, and sucked in a gasp.

He was on a landing above the grand hall of whatever building he was in. A window at least fifty feet tall and wide took up most of the opposite wall. Wherever Oliver was must've been on a mountain somewhere, because the window overlooked a tiny, distant city and an ocean sparkling in the moonlight. Across from Oliver hung a massive chandelier, and directly below it was the source of the smell he had been following. A huge round table dominated the hall, big enough for fifty people to sit comfortably. But less than a dozen people had pulled up chairs, eating a veritable feat from the huge pile of food in the center of the table. Curiously, even though there were only seven people eating, there was an eighth chair pulled up that looked like, to Oliver at least, a throne or head chair of some kind. He guessed that the man/woman in charge wasn't here. He watched the feast for a few minutes, heard the laughter as they threw rolls at each other and argued about pointless things. Soon, the envy gnawed at him just as hard as the hunger.

Then, all at once, the room grew quiet as one of them spotted him.

A man's voice called out with an accent Oliver couldn't quite place, "Holy shit, he's alive."

Oliver's heart dropped. Even though he wanted to slink back to the infirmary and never come out, Oliver decided to take a deep breath, grab the railing to lean onto, and walk down the stairs. He felt eight pairs of eyes drill into him as he descended, but when he looked it wasn't anger or apprehension on their faces. It was a kind of surprise... awe? What the hell were they awed about? A guy who must've looked more like a goddamn skeleton than a man at this point?

Confused, he made the last few steps and padded over to the table, a large fireplace he hadn't seen coming into view underneath the landing. As it crackled and popped and bathed the room in warmth, Oliver stood around for a few seconds regretting his choice to not search for new clothing, before clearing his throat and saying, "Should I pull up a chair or...?"

Another guy, with brown hair in a buzz cut and hazel eyes that sparkled with mirth, just grinned at him and gestured at the empty chair, at what Oliver only now realized was the head of the table, "You already got one, boss."

Oliver just blinked at him. Looked at the chair. Back at him. At the rest of the people at the table. They nodded back at him, tiny smiles on their faces. Oliver licked his lips, nodded more to himself than any of them, and sat down at the table. The chair was incredibly comfortable, and he almost let out a groan as he leaned back, but he managed to keep it in. Someone to his right passed him a plate, stacked high with food. Oliver glanced over and saw the girl from before, just after he got out of the underworld. Her hair was dyed purple now, and Oliver could see that she had a couple silver piercings. A stud on her nose, numerous earrings, and a ring through her eyebrow. Despite the fairly intimidating appearance she gave him a smile that warmed him to the core, and he asked her the most obvious first question in the goddamn universe, "Who are you? Where are we?"

The girl cocked an eyebrow at him, "That's two questions."

"Then give me two answers."

Most of the people at the table chuckled and the guy with the buzz cut gave an enthusiastic "Oooo!", which elicited a laugh from the rest. The girl grinned at Oliver, flattening her palm to her chest and saying, "Well, I'm Nina Ramsay, and this," she swept her arm across the table, "is Fort Ignis."

Oliver just gave her a look that bordered on incredulous, "Fort Fire?"

A new voice suddenly appeared in the room, deep and rich as silk. "They insisted."

Oliver's heart almost stopped. He knew that voice. Knew it like family.

Prometheus was in front of the fireplace, hands folded behind his back, tuxedo freshly pressed. He beamed at Oliver, "I'm glad you're finally awake, Oliver. We have much business to attend to."


	4. Introductions, Explanations

-O-

Dinner was loud, a bit chaotic, and delicious. After Prometheus magicked Oliver some new clothes right onto his body (which was quite possibly the strangest sensation he had ever experienced), the Titan disappeared up the stairs.

"We'll talk after dinner," He told Oliver before he left, nodding at the full plate of food in front of him, "eat first. Gather your strength."

Oliver opened his mouth to protest, but one look at the roast beef and potatoes on his plate convinced him. He nodded back at Prometheus and said, "Alright. But I want answers ready when I get there."

Prometheus gave him a small smile, the faded scars on his deeply tanned skin tugging upward, "Of course."

With that he gave the table a shallow bow and strode up the stairs, his footfalls making a curiously little amount of sound as he went. After the Titan shut the door atop the landing behind him, the guy with the buzz cut cleared his throat, "Guess it's time for introductions, huh?"

Oliver took a bite of roast beef, almost moaned at how delicious it was, then nodded at him, "Go for it. I'm listening."

Buzz cut's name was Kevin Brightwood, and he handled the heavy weapons. After he introduced himself, he pulled up his sleeve and showed off a tattoo of what looked like a steel-gray snake coiling around his right arm, ending just above his wrist. "And this is Titus," he said with a grin. Before Oliver could respond, another table member cut in, a Hispanic lady with dark eyes, side-swept black hair, a build like an MMA fighter's and a nasty scar on her face, "Kevin, I swear to God if you let that thing loose on the table again I'll-"

Too late. Before she could finish her threat, Kevin's tattoo started to _move,_ obeying some unheard command. Oliver watched in mild horror as the snake writhed and glowed silver for a moment before slithering out of the tattoo and onto the table, growing slightly larger as it did so. It's metallic, scaly hide glittered in the light of the crackling fireplace, and as it moved it sounded like a thousand coins jingling against each other. Two diamonds were set into the side of it's head as eyes. Oliver waited for the tail to exit, but it just... didn't.

More and more automaton slithered out of Kevin's tattoo until finally, after what felt like five minutes, the tail popped out. Oliver estimated that Titus the Metal Python was about ten feet long, though he had no idea how much he must've weighed. As the automaton sniffed around the food at the center of the table the Hispanic lady shot to her feet, cursing in rapid-fire Spanish. Kevin, with a broad smile on his face and in his eyes, got up as well, hands splayed out, saying something along the lines of, "Rosa, be calm here."

Oliver heard Nina next to him mutter, "Oh, here we go."

Then the chase was on. Kevin immediately bolted out the door, with Rosa hot on his heels, thundering past Oliver as the massive main doors slammed open. Cold wind blew into the room, instantly chilling the entire table as the pair disappeared into the darkness. As Titus the Metal Snake slithered off the table and in front of the fire behind Oliver, he turned to Nina, eyebrow raised, "That common around here?"

Nina just sighed, "Like you wouldn't believe," then she flicked her wrist, muttering a word in a language Oliver didn't recognize as she did so. Another gust of wind blew through the room, but it was sharper than the ones blowing in from outside. Focused. The doors that the Rosa and Kevin had left open crashed closed, and Nina cleared her throat, grinning up at Oliver's wide eyes, "I do some magic, by the way. Twenty-first Nome."

That meant exactly nothing to Oliver, but Nina didn't seem to care or notice, continuing on without missing a beat, "So, that was Rosa Velazquez. She punches things and tries to keep us in line," the corner of her lip twitched upward, "well, Kevin mostly."

Oliver nodded slowly, chewing his potatoes as he watched Titus curl up in front of the fireplace, "Where'd he get the snake?"

Nina shook her head, "Better to ask him that. He can tell the story better."

Oliver nodded, drank from a large goblet filled with what tasted like wine and gestured for the next person, "Alright, I'll keep it in mind. Next?"

Abelard von Richthofen, 'Abe', wore the hat of quartermaster, cook, clerk and just about everything else that involved numbers and a cool head. He was an older man with coffee-brown skin and a black silk patch over his left eye. His steel-gray mustache was neatly combed and his head was shaved clean, and the way he held himself reminded Oliver of his father. A military man, Oliver reckoned. His slightly accented voice filled the room as he spoke, "I hope to be of great service, sir."

Oliver just nodded and gave a small smile, "Oliver's fine, thanks. Not really a 'sir'."

The older man just raised a bushy eyebrow, "Oh, but you are the one in charge here, _ja_?"

Oliver shrugged, feeling slightly uncomfortable, "I guess, but-"

Abe cut him off, "Then you are 'sir' to me. I refuse to call you anything less."

There didn't seem to be any convincing him otherwise, so Oliver accepted it. Still, he wondered why he was sitting at the head of the table, in charge. Something to ask Prometheus, he thought, stashing the thought away and turning to the person to Abe's right.

Denali Nakamura might've been the smallest man Oliver had ever met. He couldn't have been more than five-two, maybe a hundred ten pounds, with long black hair tied back in a ponytail and a scar over his throat - a long, jagged slash crossing directly over his jugular. That, combined with the intense look in his deep dark eyes gave Oliver the feeling that he was the kind of guy who could crush a cinder block with his bare hands if he really wanted to. The slight man just waved at Oliver when he looked at him. Nina leaned in next to him when there was a lull in the conversation, "He's our sneaky guy, in case you couldn't guess."

Oliver just snorted and nodded to the next Keeper, "And you are?"

Maja Gustavus said that she almost got out of her seat to hug him when Oliver first came down the stairs, but Rosa held her down. She was sturdily built, with long blond hair pulled back in a bun and blue eyes that shone in the firelight. She placed a hand on her chest and said, in Swedish heavy English, "I take care of all the machines, armor and weapons in the fort. Make some custom pieces too, like that," the large woman pointed at Oliver's left arm, gleaming gold, "one of my best works, if I say so myself."

Oliver subconsciously flexed the fingers on his new arm and had to agree. He was already getting used to the slight heaviness of the new limb, how it felt, how it moved, the strength it possessed. Then he realized what else the Swede had said and glanced at her, "Armor?"

At that, the woman shrugged, looking suddenly unsure of herself, "Something I've been working on, but-" she shook her head, "it won't be ready for a long time, so don't worry about it."

Oliver contemplated pushing for more, her answer intrigued him, but one look at her reluctance told him all he needed to know, "Alright, when you're ready then."

The last figure at the table perplexed him the most. Amal al-Shabbana was a whip-thin Arabic man dressed in all black, with a white turban wrapped around his head and a black sash around his eyes. He was calmly sitting in his chair, no food in front of him, and Oliver thought he was asleep for a moment before he introduced himself in, of all things, a Boston accent. Frankly, the accent startled Oliver more than anything, but he listened close as Amal said, "I keep the tomes about all the monsters we have encountered over the years," a wispy smile crossed his lips as something glowed purple beneath the sash around his face, "as well as some of the more... occult topics."

Oliver was admittedly curious as to what some of those topics held, but he decided that was a conversation for another time. The rest of dinner proceeded with little incident. Rosa and Kevin returned a few minutes later, both flushed from the cold outside. Even though Kevin was sporting the red outline of a female hand on his cheek, he didn't look one bit regretful, smiling broadly as he dug into the dinner, pointedly ignoring Rosa's burning glare. Conversation returned after a few short minutes, and the great hall was alive once again. After about an hour, the meal was winding down and the Keepers were talking more than eating. Oliver, deciding now was appropriate, rose from his chair, excused himself and climbed up the stairs, hearing a chorus of mildly disappointed 'Goodnight!'s rise up behind him as he left.

* * *

He walked the long, fine hallway above the grand hall for a few minutes, taking two lefts and passing numerous doors and paintings and whatnot before arriving at the end of the hall. Flanking the fine mahogany double doors were two statues carved out of some black rock that gleamed. Vaguely humanoid, bat-like features, wicked sharp claws, ruby eyes. Gargoyles. They were about as tall as Oliver, around six and a half feet, but much wider, perched on chunks of the same black rock, wings tucked against their backs. He reached out to open one of the doors, but jerked backwards and almost had a heart attack as the gargoyle on his right _moved._ He should have expected that, but he was still running all of the names and faces he had just gotten thrown at him through his head. The beast didn't seem hostile, though. More curious than anything, sniffing like a dog at him. After a moment of frantic planning and focusing on not panicking, Oliver slowly reached out with his right hand.

Thankfully the gargoyle did not snap his hand off, only sniff it a few times before making the weirdest damn noise Oliver had every heard and nudging it's head against his hand. The other gargoyle, moving shockingly quiet for what must've been a half-ton of stone, sniffed at Oliver's neck before licking it with a dry, cold tongue. Abruptly deciding he's had quite enough gargoyle loving, Oliver gently pushed both of them off of him. Even though they were giant bat-monster-guardian-statues, they were pretty damn cute, he had to admit. So he stood back, rubbed his chin for a minute and then pointed at the one on the right, "Heckler," to the one on the left, "and Koch. Understand?"

To his eternal surprise, they both nodded, apparently understanding him. Alright. He has pets/bodyguards now. Shaking his head, Oliver strode past the two and entered what he assumed was his room, and stopped almost immediately to take it in. The room was large, open, with a clean marble floor and four marble pillars holding the ceiling up. On the left side was a queen-sized bed on a slightly raised platform with small stairs leading up to it, and on the right was a large desk with a mini library packed with scrolls and tomes. In the center of the room was either a small pool or a large bathtub, steaming hot and blue as the ocean. At the opposite side of the room was a set of glass doors leading out to a balcony, where a tall form was silhouetted against the moonlight.

Oliver's bare feet padded against the cool stone floor as he crossed the room, pushing open the glass doors and stepping out onto the balcony. The view was breathtaking; an entire city was spread out below him, lights and sounds drifting up to meet his ears. The moon was setting over the ocean, reflecting off of the gray-blue water like it was a mirror. But something about it was off, and Oliver couldn't quite place what it was. Maybe it was the off-yellow hue it had taken on. Or the fact that it seemed just a touch too bright for his eyes. It looked... sick.

Prometheus turned to him as he leaned on the balcony railing, "How was dinner?"

Oliver responded, "Interesting."

That brought a short laugh out of the Titan, "Good."

There was a beat of silence, before Oliver asked the first question on his mind, "Where's Marvin?"

"Olympus," Prometheus answered, a hint of something Oliver couldn't place in his voice- disappointment?

The mortal grimaced. Damn. Though he knew it was foolish to think, Oliver couldn't help but hope that his friend was kept somewhere at least accessible. Olympus was about as far from accessible as it got, save the Underworld. A cold ball of guilt began to form in his stomach, but he crushed it before it overwhelmed him. Now wasn't the time to feel sorry for himself.

"I assume there's a plan to bust him out?" He asked Prometheus.

"It's in the works, but there are a few... caveats," the Titan said, "most of which concern our patron."

Oliver pursed his lips and tried not to curse, "Like?"

Prometheus waved a hand, and the expression on his face was one of poorly veiled disgust, "We have to do things for her in exchange for gathering us here,

returning this fortress to working condition, bringing you back to life, giving me enough power to take physical form, supplying us with arms and funds," the old Titan sighed, "the list is quite extensive."

Oliver felt his throat go dry, "So we're in debt to her?"

"Essentially."

"And how much work did she say we'll have to do to pay it off?"

"She didn't."

Oliver looked out over the city. He had conflicting feelings about this new information. On the one hand, he did feel grateful towards Gaea for bringing him back to life. That was worth a few favors in his book. But on the other, he had no idea what she would want him to do. He just wanted to get Marvin back, and the fact that she was explicitly denying him the ability to do so left a bad taste in Oliver's mouth. Subconsciously his grip tightened on the marble railing of the balcony. After a moment of this pressure his new left hand crushed the handful of stone like it was nothing. Oliver only realized he had broken the marble when the sound of it reached his ears, and he blinked down at his arm in surprise. He glanced up at Prometheus to apologize, but stopped when he saw him staring out into the distance.

Oliver cleared his throat, and the Titan seemed to almost jump out of his daze, "Oh, my apologies. Where-?"

Oliver waved him off, "It's fine, it's fine. I actually had a different question for you."

Prometheus looked at him expectantly, so Oliver asked, "Why am I in charge here? Shouldn't you be calling the shots?"

Prometheus just shook his head, a slight smile on his face, "No, no. I may have created the Keepers, but I will never lead them."

"Why not? You're the Titan of Foresight, surely you'd do better at this than I can." Even to himself, Oliver sounded whiney, but he couldn't help himself. He doubted he'd make a good leader of anything, nevermind the goddamn Keepers of Fire.

But Prometheus answered, "Oliver, it is not in my nature to lead. Even during the Titan Wars I was simply the advisor to my Lord Brother. I can predict troop movements, negotiate alliances, suggest the most beneficial course of action. But lead?" he shook his head again, solemn this time, "that is not in my nature."

Oliver turned to him, scowling, "It's not in mine either, Prometheus. I was homeschooled in the middle of Vermont, okay? I had no siblings, no real friends, and the only time I interacted with people not in my family was when we either went to town or my Dad's military buddies came over for cards. So how exactly am I a better leader than you?"

By the end of his rant Oliver was yelling, and he had to focus on breathing to calm himself down. All the while Prometheus look at him blankly, but there was a look in his eyes Oliver couldn't place. Pity? Remorse? It didn't matter. The look evaporated so quickly Oliver wasn't sure it was there in the first place. Prometheus just sighed again and muttered something under his breath in Ancient Greek. While Oliver didn't know much of the language, he picked out one word: Vision.

Prometheus said out loud in English, "Because you are the one who bears the Fire, Oliver. That position, and the one of leader, are one in the same in the Keepers."

"That doesn't answer my question," Oliver replied.

Prometheus just offered an apologetic smile and spread his hands out, "It's the only one I have for you, Oliver." He was lying. Oliver knew it, and he was willing to bet that Prometheus knew he knew.

So Oliver sighed, leaned forward on the railing and asked, "Is the information you're keeping from me related to the vision I had when I first woke up?"

Prometheus looked surprised at his forwardness, and Oliver took a small pleasure in the way his eyes widened, "What are you talking about?"

Oliver explained the strange, hyper-realistic vision he had in the bathroom of the infirmary. When he was finished the Titan's normally deep brown skin was a few shades lighter than Oliver had ever seen. The balcony was silent for a long time, and Oliver got his answer. With a bitter taste in his mouth, the mortal waved his hand and turned back to the view of the city, "You're dismissed. It's time I got some sleep."

Prometheus blinked and cleared his throat, "I'm sorry Oliver, but-"

Oliver just held up his hand and said, "It's fine. Some things just weren't meant for mortal minds, huh?" he didn't mean to sound so passive-aggressive, but he couldn't keep it out of his voice.

Prometheus looked like he was about to say something but held his tongue. The Titan gave a shallow bow and, without a word, dissapeared into thin air. Oliver watched the moon set for a few more minutes before returning inside and climbing into the large, impossibly comfortable bed and drifting off into sleep.

The latest in a long line of mistakes.


	5. First Assignment

(Sorry this took so long to update. Had three different projects to do these past few weeks in school. So, I decided to make this chapter longer than usual to compensate. Sorry again, and enjoy.)

* * *

-O-

Oliver jerked awake, confused and so disoriented that he almost fell off the soft cotton bed he was in. When he remembered where he was, he sighed and rubbed his forehead in an attempt to stave off the splitting headache that was forming behind his eyes. He didn't remember much of his dreams, but judging by the way his heart was pounding and his lungs were burning, they couldn't have been good. He vaguely recalled standing in a blood-red field, weapon in his hand, but the memory was slipping away even now.

With another sigh he rolled to the other side of the bed and looked out the window to gauge the time. It was early. _Very_ early. The sky was a bluish-whitish color that Oliver acquainted more with snow than anything else, and he thought he heard the distinctive chirping of morning birds somewhere in the distance. He rose from the bed and pushed his now long, gray-white hair out of his eyes and behind his ears, before noticing something he hadn't the night before. Against the wall next to his bed was a series of three long, thin grooves carved into the marble, one above the other, with a bit of space in between them.

Seeing no other option and slightly annoyed at himself for not giving the room a full inspection the night before, he pressed his finger against one of the grooves. With a soft click, a small section of the wall just below the groove popped a few inches out of the marble. Touch activated drawer. Neat. With a tug Oliver glanced inside the container and ran his eyes across the rows of neat, folded clothing. A look inside the other drawers revealed much the same story, clothing. Two of them held comfortable, civilian attire. Lots of flannel shirts, jeans, tennis shoes, sweat pants and so on. But the third drawer piqued his interest. Inside were two sets of military uniforms, seemingly only different in color scheme, neither with any distinguishing marks or patches. The uniform consisted of an undershirt, an over-shirt, a pair of pants, gloves, combat boots and a black balaclava mask, all made out of a special blend of nylon that afforded retaliative durability and flexibility. One set was white, patterned with splotches of grays and dark blues to break up the human outline and trick the eyes. The other set was all black, special-forces style.

Oliver considered the two sets for a moment, before shutting the drawer with a click and choosing instead a plain white shirt and jeans, along with a fresh pair of boxers. He padded over to the large water feature in the center of his room and peeled off his day-old, sweaty clothes and stepped down into the steaming water, a groan escaping his lips. He shut his eyes and rested his head against the cool marble as the hot water eased the coiled tension in his body. After a short search he found another long, shallow groove carved into the rim of the bath/pool, which expanded upward, revealing a small rack of shampoo and soap.

After washing his hair and scrubbing himself raw he crawled out of the bath, and had just began slipping on his new attire when he heard a knock on his door. Oliver pulled on the jeans and shirt before calling out, "Come in!"

Kevin's dark haired head poked into the room with a grin, glancing around the room with a soft whistle, "Damn, boss. Nice room."

Oliver just grunted in acknowledgement, before asking him, "I assume you have something for me?"

Kevin nodded, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder, "Abe wants to talk to you in the War Room. Some kinda mission for us."

Oliver raised an inquisitive eyebrow before drily saying, "He knows I was dead about twenty-nine hours ago, right?"

The big man snorted and said, "It's nothing major. We're supposed to be capturing a couple Godlings, or something along those lines at least."

"Godlings can still be dangerous, Kevin," Oliver warned, "don't take them lightly."

Kevin raised his hands defensively, "I know, I'm just sayin' it shouldn't be that big a deal is all. C'mon, we shouldn't keep Abe waiting."

Oliver agreed, and the two of them exited Oliver's room, giving Heckler and Koch a rub on the head on their way out. As the two traversed the long hallways of Fort Ignis, Oliver asked, "So, where are we, exactly?"

Kevin absently rubbed the tattoo of Titus on his arm as he spoke, "San Francisco, California. Specifically Mt. Tamalpais. Well, technically it's Mount Othrys, the Titans' old headquarters."

"Bit of an obvious choice for a fort full of Titan supporters then, isn't it?"

Kevin shook his head, "Nah, but I don't blame you for thinkin' so. See, the Greeks and Romans think that the Titan threat is over and done with, what with the whole cyclical fate bullshit that I barely understand, so they ain't got no reason to look for us. On top of that, the Mist is thick as gravy around the top of the mountain, right where we're standing, so even if someone ran a magical search over us, they wouldn't turn up anything."

As Kevin explained, the pair descended further into the Fort, through a door in the Great Hall that Oliver hadn't seen the previous night, down flights of stairs carved into black rock lit by LEDs set into the wall. Eventually they came upon a small antechamber, with a steel door covered in magical symbols and green hieroglyphics that seemed to glow. Oliver frowned and opened his mouth to ask, but Kevin answered first, "Check it out."

He extended his hand, took a deep breath, made a strange gesture with his fingers, and then pushed outward. The symbols and wards glowed green for a moment before, in utter silence, the steel door swung open. Oliver whistled lowly, clearly impressed, "Very neat. I'm guessing the gesture's some kind of key?"

Kevin nodded, "Exactly. I'll ask Nina to show you how to do it later."

"Why can't you?"

The big man grinned at the question, "That's the beauty of it; you can only use it properly if the creator of the key shows you themselves."

Oliver nodded in approval, "Better than a fingerprint scanner, that. And what if you do it wrong or the creator didn't show you themself?"

Kevin just shrugged, "No idea. Nina put about a dozen curses on the thing, Roman, Greek, Egyptian, you name it. Hell, I think Amal got in on it too, and that guy knows some shit, let me tell you."

Oliver thought about it for a second, "So, you'd pretty much just explode from all of that magic?"

"If you're lucky."

Oliver had to agree.

The door lead into a large, open room, with one massive window overlooking the mountains replacing the far wall. A few doors lead farther into the mountain, with the same green symbols covering it as the one before, with words above them in green with one in particular catching Oliver's eye; _Armory._ In the center was a long, low table rimmed by comfortable looking chairs. On top of the table was some kind of electric blue cover, stopping a few inches in from the edge, and it took Oliver a moment to realize that it was a single, enormous screen of some kind. At the far end of the table, lounging in the chair directly to the right of the one at the head, reading a red paperback book.

At the sound of footsteps the German clasped it shut and rose, tucking it away into his long, dark coat, giving Oliver a crisp salute, touching his fingertips to his brow, "Good morning, sir. How did you sleep?"

Oliver returned the gesture, though not nearly with the same mechanical precision as the older man, "Fine, thank you for asking. At ease," he walked to the table and leaned against it as Abe's hand dropped behind his back, "what do you have for me?"

"A simple assignment from our Mistress, sir. To get you back into the shape of things, as it were," Abe answered, pressing a few barely-noticeable buttons in the rim of the table. The blue screen that encompassed most of the surface area of the piece flared to life, and suddenly the wire-frame image of a compound appeared a few inches above it. It was a mansion, surrounded by a wall with a large gate, like something out of Beverly Hills.

Oliver whistled and ran his hand through the image, watching the compound spin at the motion before slowly settling back, "Magical ID locks, interactive holographic displays... I'm liking this place more and more."

Abe just nodded, "It is quite impressive, isn't it?" he gestured at Kevin, who was leaning against the wall watching the two of them, Titus curled around his shoulders, "I assume Kevin has at least mentioned what we are to do?"

"He did, but fill me in on the rest."

Abelard nodded and pressed a few more buttons at his end, and the hologram shifted to an image of three teenagers, two males and one female. Abe cleared his throat and explained, "Last night, I received a message from our Mistress. She wants us to capture these three Godlings; Jason Grace, Leo Valdez and Piper McLean," as he listed off the names Abe pointed at each Demigod in succession, "she didn't mention why these three in particular, but I decided not to press."

Oliver frowned and asked, "And she didn't come to me with this because...?"

Abelard coughed into his fist, "Because, sir, you've been asleep for the better part of twenty four hours. I only received the message last night, and our Mistress deemed it more important that I make the preparations right away instead of waiting for you to wake. Sorry, sir."

Oliver blinked, surprised for a moment that he had slept for a day, but waved his hand, "It's fine, Abe. Continue, please. Do we know where these Godlings are?"

Abe shook his head, "No sir, but we know where they will be." he pressed a few buttons, and the image of the mansion from before flickered to life, "Our Mistress has informed us that they will be flying over this compound. Luckily it belongs to one of our allies, Midas, so we shouldn't have any trouble setting up an ambush."

Oliver frowned, "You said they were flying? Do we have any Anti-Aircraft weapons?"

Abe gave the Keeper a shallow grin, "I never said anything about aircraft, sir."

The next image he pulled up made Oliver mutter a curse. A dragon, covered in metal plating and scales, with two giant gems for eyes and a set of wings like a small plane, and it had to weigh at least fifty tons if it was solid all the way through. Oliver glanced at Kevin, "We got anything big enough to take this thing down?"

Kevin nodded at him, "A few things come to mind."

"Such as?"

Kevin scratched Titus's head as he thought, "We got a few RPGs and LAWs in the armory, a couple towed AA guns in the garage," then a grin split his face, "then, of course, there's _Schrödinger."_

Oliver thought he misheard him, "Who?"

"Not who; what." Kevin corrected, " _Schrödinger_ is the name of the Tiger Two that my Grandaddy sto- I mean misplaced, during World War Two."

Oliver stared at him, "You mean to tell me that we have a fully functional, armed and loaded, Tiger Two in our garage?"

"I am."

"How long will it take you to get it ready to move?"

Kevin didn't hesitate, "Five to ten minutes."

Oliver nodded, "Good. Can you drive it? Operate the gun?"

Kevin nodded back in return, "I come from a line of Tankers, boss. My great-granddad served with General Pershing himself in World War One, and my granddad with Patton after him. Tankin's in my blood."

"Good. Then we'll take _Schrödinger_ with us to... where is this compound, Abe?"

"Omaha, Nebraska, sir," Abe responded, "a bit of a drive, but nothing too bad."

Oliver nodded, studying the dragon's intimidating form floating above the table, "Alright, we'll leave after breakfast. Tell everyone what's going on, Kevin. I wanna discuss a few things with Abe first."

Kevin nodded, "You got it boss. We'll be waiting for you in the Great Hall," with that he turned on his heel and exited the room, shutting the door behind him.

Oliver turned to Abe, "How dangerous are these Godlings, Abe?"

"Decently," Abelard admitted, pulling up a small profile of each of them on the table, "Jason Grace seems to be the leader of them. Son of Jupiter. Wind manipulation, lightning summoning, exactly what you'd expect. Ironically, he was the one who lead the Roman Legion in the attack on this very mountain last year. Defeated the Titan Krios in single combat."

Oliver scowled. Just his luck he had to capture a Roman war hero, "Of course Gaea wants a Son of Jupiter. What about the other two?"

Abe glanced at the two profiles, "Son of Hephaestus and daughter of Aphrodite, respectively, not really too much to worry about. We think the girl can Charmspeak though, so keep a watch out for that."

Oliver nodded and then raised an eyebrow, "A Roman leading two Greeks? How'd that come about?"

"Gaea thinks that either Juno or Hera is attempting to reunite the two camps somehow. Though our spies haven't discovered the exact reason why, or how, yet."

Oliver blinked at him, "We have spies?"

Abelard just laughed, a booming sound resonating from his frame, "Of course, sir. Wind spirits, mostly, a few shadows, that kind of thing. Why do you ask?"

Oliver felt the skin on his neck flush at the sudden laughter for a moment before he composed himself, "You receive information from them directly?"

Abe nodded, "I do."

"Could you start making a report of the most important or interesting bits, and bring it to me first thing."

The German man raised his eyebrow at Oliver for a moment, before nodding, "I can, sir. I'll begin writing it after you leave and have it ready for you tomorrow morning."

"Thank you, Abe. Now, let's go eat."

* * *

After a huge breakfast of bacon, toast and eggs, along with two cups of black coffee, the team assembled in the armory to prepare. The armory was almost like a locker room in design, and practice; two long benches ran through the room, while racks of weapons, ammunition and equipment rested against both walls. Rosa and Kevin were arm-wrestling, Nina rummaged through a large wooden box with painted green hieroglyphics, and Denali read a book on the other end of the bench. The rest of the Keepers, Maja, Amal and Abe, all declined for the mission, which made sense to Oliver, what with them not really being front line fighters in the first place.

Oliver, along with the other members of the team present, had changed into his winter camouflaged uniform and was currently loading up a G36c one hundred round drum magazine. Normally Oliver would've preferred a more powerful round than the 5.56 that the G36c fired, but his team's goal was to capture, not kill. A tactical vest was strapped to his chest with a few standard magazines filling the pockets, and a camouflaged helmet with a pair of thermal-vision goggles sat on the bench next to him. He chose a replacement .45 caliber handgun for his USP Match, an HK45 slid into his chest holster, as well as a smaller backup, a Beretta Px4 Storm in his hip holster, also a .45.

After loading the hundred round magazine into his compact rifle and stuffing his balaclava into one of his pockets, Oliver stood up and slung his rifle over his shoulder, helmet under arm. He called out, "Alright people, let's move. Kevin, get _Schrödinger_ ready."

At his order, the team rose to their feet and slung their respective weapons across their shoulders, helmet under their arms. Kevin ran ahead, struggling slightly with the bulky M249 SAW machine gun in his arms, and disappeared up the stairs while the rest of them followed at a slower pace. Once they exited the front door of the Great Hall, Oliver inhaled the cold December air with a sigh. The wind chilled his face and neck, but he welcomed the feeling, like a blast straight from Vermont. The sun was now high in the sky, late morning, and Oliver had to shield his eyes with his hand from the brightness of it before his eyes adjusted to it. The courtyard of Fort Ignis was the size of a football field, with a twenty foot wall of black stone surrounding it, capped with tall towers at seven points and a wrought iron gate set in the middle. The garage was the size of an aircraft hanger, also made of black stone, with a huge driveway leading to the gate.

They entered the garage through a backdoor, and Oliver let out a whistle at the sight of the interior. It was just as large as it looked outside, packed with vehicles. He saw at least half a dozen Humvees, four with .50 caliber machine guns on top, various motorcycles, and more that Oliver couldn't list, along with a few pieces of light artillery. But in the center of the massive room, sitting directly underneath the fifty foot industrial light that illuminated the entire room, was _Schrödinger._ The Tiger Two was ten feet tall, with winter camouflaged armor and a massive cannon barrel sticking out of the semi-rectangular turret. It took Oliver a few seconds to realize that the engine was running, humming gently in the chassis of the tank, like the purring of a massive cat.

The hatch leading down into the main compartment of the vehicle popped open, and Kevin's grinning face rose out like a groundhog, "Well? We goin'?"

Oliver nodded in return, pointing at the tank and telling Rosa, "Make sure he doesn't break anything, will you?"

"I can hear you!"

Rosa's lip curled up, the scar on her face twisting around her eye, "Alright, but he won't like it," she warned.

"That's not the point, Rosa. I don't want that thing to break down just as we're about to face down that metal dragon. An extra set of eyes to make sure our biggest gun doesn't break down just makes sense."

She thought about it for a seconds before adjusting the Spas-12 shotgun around her shoulder and giving him a quick salute, "Yes sir," she said, marching towards the tank and yelling at Kevin to move over.

Oliver climbed into the driver seat of a Humvee with a .50 caliber gun mounted on the top, putting his G36c into the enlarged opening in place of a center console. Denali lie in the backseat, putting his P90 sub-machine gun on the floor and promptly falling asleep while Nina took shotgun, laying her weird box in her lap. Oliver raised an eyebrow and jerked his chin at it, "What is that, anyway?"

Nina grinned and patted the wood fondly, "My magic box," she said matter-of-factly.

Oliver blinked at her, "Ah, of course. How could I have not known?"

The magician snorted and raised her hand, making the gesture from before. At the same time, the enormous double doors leading out of the garage swung open silently. Oliver revved the engine of the Humvee and pulled forward and out of the building, _Schrödinger_ lumbering right at his heels, it's massive gears grinding against each other. Nina opened the gate leading down the mountain, and Oliver asked her as they were driving down the snowy road, "Hey, Nina."

She turned to him, "Yeah?"

"You mind showing me how to do that gesture properly? It's a long ride, and I really don't wanna learn firsthand what kinda curses you and Amal loaded those locks with." He asked her, looking at her through the corner of his eye.

She smiled at him and nodded, "Of course," and she shifted in her seat to get a touch closer, spreading her fingers apart in the air, "So, the first thing you wanna do is..."

* * *

(That was... slightly longer than I expected. Ah well, sorry for taking so long to update. In fact I might upload again this weekend if I got nothing else to do. Also, I decided to do away with the whole 'Act' thing that I had going on in the last book. Just thought you would want to know, I guess.)


	6. Fire, Rain and Blood

-O-

The convoy was making good time, making it to the border of Nebraska by nine at night, and it was raining like a frozen monsoon in Julesburg, Colorado. Cold bullets stung Oliver's face and neck where they sunk into his balaclava, hitting him from a damn near horizontal angle. He had lost the game of rock-paper-scissors between himself, Denali and Nina to decide who would refuel the Humvee, and so now he stood underneath the woefully inadequate canopy, left hand on the gas nozzle, right shoved deep in his pocket. Kevin was refueling _Schrödinger_ from some of the special tank fuel he apparently kept somewhere inside the chassis, and the massive fighting vehicle looked staggeringly out of place in the town of barely twelve hundred people. Oliver, for the sole reason of avoiding a panic, left his handguns and tactical vest in the Humvee, and he felt awkward without the weight on his chest and hip. Still, better that they get some weird looks and pictures than to have SWAT kick up a scene, though he did manage to hide a knife in a forearm sheath. Paranoia wouldn't allow him defenseless, even if that defense was a only a seven inch cold-steel blade.

Oliver, not having done so since they had left Fort Ignis, decided he may as well go to the bathroom now instead of on location. When he finished refueling he stuck his head back inside the Humvee and stabbed his thumb at the station building, "I'm goin' inside for a bit. Want anything?"

Nina wanted a Dr. Pepper and Denali was somehow still asleep, despite the long drive thus far. So, rapidly crossing the area unprotected by the canopy and cursing the rain a thousand times under his breath, he ducked inside the blessedly warm interior of the gas station. It was clean and well-kept, with rows of snacks on the left and a long counter on the right manned by a middle-aged black guy utterly engrossed in a novel. There were a few teenagers, four of them, hanging out by the soda dispenser, baseball bats at their sides, and they glanced at him once before returning to talk among themselves. Oliver sighed and pulled off the now-soaked balaclava, striding to the bathroom to wring out the wool. The bathroom too, thankfully, was clean, though it smelled too strongly of bleach for his liking.

After wringing out his balaclava and taking a piss, he washed his hands at the cheap-looking sink, taking off his gloves to do so, his golden left hand gleaming brightly in the bright lights. His skin was taking on some of it's previous healthier, if pale, complexion. The scars that marred his face were starting to take on the tone as well, instead of the harsh red it had been before. Still, Oliver saw a stranger looking back at him, with his glassy eyes and long gray hair and hollow cheeks. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Dammit, he needed a cigarette. Deciding he didn't really give a shit about the 'No Smoking' sign above the mirror, Oliver started fishing around his pockets for one of the hand-rolled cigarettes he had managed to hastily put together during the drive.

Preoccupied with his thoughts and the search for nicotine-based relief, he heard the door of the bathroom open behind him but paid it no mind. Only when he stuck and lit a cigarette in his mouth did he look back up into the mirror. Behind him, against the back wall, were four of the teenagers from the gas station. Only at that exact moment did Oliver realize how odd it was for them to have brought their bats inside, and he mentally kicked himself for not recognizing the obvious red flag. They held their bats ready in their hands, gleaming menacingly and brightly, glaring daggers into Oliver's back. Oliver kept his expression under control, to give off the impression he was more confident than he felt, and placed his lighter back in his pocket.

Oliver turned around and leaned against the sink, cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, puffing smoke out of his nose and saying in a conversational tone, "Demigods?"

One of them, who Oliver mentally tagged as the leader, nodded. He was slight, with blonde hair cut very short and a face that looked like it was suited for shit-eating grins rather than glaring, "We know who you are, Oliver Irons. What you've done," his voice warbled a little at the end of his statement, and Oliver noted his uncomfortable shifting of feet.

Oliver _humphed_ and ashed his cigarette in the sink, "How'd you find me, then? To my knowledge, Mortals aren't so easily tracked."

This time a different Godling answered, a big guy with dark hair and a smile missing enough teeth that Oliver had to decipher what he was saying for a moment, "Lord Apollo sends his regards."

Shit. Shit shit shit. Oliver had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from voicing these thoughts as he rapidly formed a plan of escape in his mind. Of course the _Sun God_ would've seen him at some point in his daily journey across the skies. He took small solace in the fact that it was against the Ancient Laws or whatever that Apollo can't just smite him and be done with it. On the other hand, Oliver had a sickening feeling in his gut that this was just the beginning of the long line of revenge for what Oliver had done to Artemis. Gritting his teeth and blowing smoke through his nose like a dragon, Oliver rose from the sink and made to exit, only to be blocked by two of the Godlings crossing their bats like spears. Oliver scowled and looked at the leader, "Tell them to move."

The Leader, seemingly bolstered by Oliver's apparent retreat, just scoffed and said, "There's four of us, one of you, and we have bats."

Oliver whirled on him and snarled suddenly, making every Demigod back up as he growled, "You really think that'll stop me from ripping out your fucking spines?"

Oliver, of course, had no such intention, but the desired objective had been achieved; intimidation and shock. The threat, along with Oliver's downright ghoulish appearance, caused the four of them to hesitate, looking to each other for reassurance.

Oliver seized the opportunity, surging forward and swinging his boot into the Leader's groin, a high-pitched noise of pain escaping his lips as the bat clattered to the ground. Seeing movement out of the corner of his eye to his right, Oliver grabbed the Leader by the collar of his shirt and shifted around, using him as a human shield. The bat was a gray blur and cracked the blonde boy's skull like a walnut, painting a section of white wall stark red. As the swinger stared in open-mouth horror at the broken skull staring back at him, Oliver threw the body forward, sending them both tumbling to the ground. He spun around and dodged a whistling bat by millimeters, the air of it kissing his nose as it crashed into the wall with a resounding, metallic ringing.

Oliver managed to draw his knife as the next Godling, the big guy who had answered him before, brought his bat down in a vertical swing, an idea forming in the half-second it took for the bat to drop from it's apex. He reached forward with his left hand, gleaming gold, and stopped the metal bat in it's track with a sharp _ping_ , like a bell. Oliver barely felt the impact. As the Godling blinked at the lackluster result of his mighty swing, Oliver stabbed him in the sternum, shoving him back with his left arm so hard that he cracked the tiled wall of the bathroom. As Oliver was about to turn and re-engage the Godlings, pain exploded behind his knee. Hissing a curse and lashing out blindly with his knife, he felt the blade catch something and heard a gasp of pain and the clatter of a bat falling to the ground.

The Godling was bleeding like a stuck pig from the side of his neck, feebly attempting to stop the river of red by holding the wound with both hands. _Hit the Carotid Artery_ , Oliver thought, _won't last more than a minute. S_ ure enough, after a few seconds of bug-eyed terror, the Godling slumped to the ground, dead eyes staring up at the ceiling.

The entire fight lasted, maybe, half a minute.

After closing the eyes of the dead bodies, Oliver limped over to the Godling trapped beneath the Leader's corpse. His eyes were unfocused, and a small pool of blood was starting to form around the back of his head. Oliver crouched down beside him and snapped his fingers under his nose, causing his eyes to flutter and his mouth to utter incoherent mumbling. Oliver slapped him once, twice, three times before the Godling blinked a few times and actually looked at him. His eyes were dark green, and they widened and filled with fear as they recognized Oliver's face, "Y-you kil-killed them-m," he stuttered, trying to crawl away and failing to notice the one hundred and twenty-odd pounds of dead weight on his chest.

Oliver curled his fingers into his shirt collar, raising his head slightly and saying, "Hey, you came after me. This," he waved a hand around the now-crimson bathroom, "is on you guys. Now tell me, is Apollo sending anything else after us?"

The Godling tried to answer him, but he stumbled over his words so much that Oliver just cut him off with, "Just nod or shake your head, alright?"

But the boy continued anyway, "W-why sh-should I tell you-u anything?"

Oliver answered with an offhand wave of his bloody knife, "'Cause I'll slit your throat and find out myself if you don't."

It was a half-truth; he wasn't going to slit the boy's throat in cold blood like this, but he did fully intend to leave him be and radio in back home to Abe if this Godling didn't answer him. Thankfully, he saved Oliver the trouble and gave a shaky nod after thinking about it for a few seconds.

"Alright, what and how many?"

The concussed Godling said, "J-just one."

Shit. Sending only one of something to intercept an enemy usually meant that something was either really big, mean as hell, or both, "One of what?"

As if answering him, gunfire suddenly erupted into staccato bursts outside. In turn a bizarre, bleating roar ripped through the gas station, causing the walls to shake so hard Oliver thought the entire thing was going to come crashing down on his head. Both it is, then.

The Godling smirked drunkenly up at him, "One of that."

Oliver punched him between the eyes and limped out of the bathroom as fast as he could.

* * *

When Oliver burst outside he immediately regretted leaving both his balaclava and gloves in the bloody bathroom, as he had now labeled it in his mind. Thick black clouds had rolled across the sky in waves, shrouding the whole town in near-impenetrable shadow. The bitter cold rain and wind froze his hand and face in seconds, and he was forced to raise an arm for cover. The road directly across from him was dark for unknown reasons, street lights and buildings alike. Even the lights ringing the canopy of the gas station were dead, and it gave Oliver the impression of an island in the middle of a dark ocean. The .50 caliber machine gun on top of the Humvee spat tracer fire into the darkness down the street of Julesburg, Denali's slight form mounting it, but for the life of him Oliver couldn't see what-

And then lightning flashed in the sky, and he caught a glimpse that sent a chill down his spine. The thing down the street was quadrupedal and massive, easily as big as _Schrödinger._ He saw it's tail lashing around like it was alive, smashing cars like a club as it passed them, horns longer than his arms and baleful red eyes that glowed in the darkness. For a moment Oliver was rooted on the spot, frozen with terror, before a voice called out to him and someone shook his shoulder, hard. Nina had her balaclava pulled down over her face, her bright green eyes like spotlights as she shoved the G36c into Oliver's arms and shouted, "C'mon, it's getting closer!"

That got him. He nodded mechanically and ran the charging handle of the rifle while glancing at the massive thing crawling down the street maybe two hundred yards away. Even from that far away, he could tell the thing was a tank-sized mass of muscle and hate. He doubted that the 5.56 round currently in his rifle, weighing 4 grams and traveling at about 3100 feet per second, would do much more than _tickle_ it. The .50 cal though, was a different story. Every time one of those massive 45 gram bullets hit their mark, the thing would let out a noise somewhere in between a growl and a hiss. Still, it kept coming. Slowly.

Oliver grimaced and asked Nina, raising his voice to be heard over the storm that was rapidly getting worse, "Can you make any magical protection? A barrier or something?"

Even underneath her black wool mask Oliver could see her screw up her nose, "Normally yes, but this fuckin' rain," she threw her hand up into the air, the other holding her magic box protectively against her hip, "would just mess up my chalk markings or knock over my Sons of Horus or something!"

Oliver cursed and limp-ran over to the Humvee, Nina right behind him, climbing inside and grabbing the radio on the dashboard, saying into it, "Kevin, you got eyes on that thing?"

The radio gushed static for a few seconds before Kevin's slightly distorted voice responded, "I do, boss, but I'm not sure what I got eyes on."

He handed the radio to Nina and began pulling his tactical vest back on, along with his two handguns, "Well, can you get a shot off with the 88?"

The German 88mm anti-tank cannon mounted on _Schrödinger_ could rip a watermelon-sized hole through an M4 Sherman at more than 500 yards. If they had anything on them capable of taking out the thing down the road in one shot, it was that. Unfortunately, Kevin's answer was, "Negative, boss. Visibility is near enough to zero that it doesn't matter," then he added, more to himself, "gotta put some new optics on this old girl."

Oliver grimaced and checked the thing's progress. One hundred yards now, about. He took the radio back from Nina with a nod and said in a dry tone, "I'm half-tempted to give you the green light to just shell the whole area with High-Explosive until it stops moving."

That brought a laugh, "Yeah, that'd be great, but I doubt Abe'd appreciate all of the property damage charges he'd have to wade through."

Then, suddenly, the .50 caliber fire that had become a comforting, thunderous background noise cut out, and only the pounding of rain on pavement and metal remained. He heard the frantic mechanical clicking as Denali worked the action on the machine gun. Jam. Oliver cursed and told Kevin, "Alright, until you see the whites of this thing's eyes, do not fire the main gun, alright?"

The jovial tone from Kevin's voice was gone in an instant, "Solid copy, boss. Will hold fire until then."

Oliver hung up the radio and took up his rifle, the stinging rain hitting his face as he limped outside and leveled the barrel down the street. Nina was next to him, staff summoned from nowhere, and he appreciated the company. Rosa, he assumed, was assisting Kevin with the operation of _Schrödinger,_ and for a while the only sound in the entire town was the rain on the pavement and Denali trying to fix the jam. Oliver considered ordering a retreat, but dismissed the idea; as soon as they got going it would either follow them all the way to Omaha, not letting them rest at all, or it would start killing civilians. The whole town, probably, if they didn't kill it right here. Suddenly he was back in Rutland, Vermont, a lifetime ago, where the Manticore had slain and eaten the entire town and he let a Hunter die and he felt the snow sting his face and crunch under his boots and saw the monster's eyes bore into his own and there was nothing he could do why couldn't they understand that he was just doing his job why did they-

He was snapped out of the flashback by the thing roaring it's weird, bleating war cry, reverberating through his chest and almost making him lose his balance. Then he heard it; an almost rhythmic scratch-clop that pounded the ground like the rain. That, along with the fact that the thing's shadowy outline was rapidly growing larger, could only mean one thing. It was running. Fast.

Oliver opened fire with his G36c, the relatively small rifle chattering away in his arms with a surprising lack of recoil. What was not surprising was the thing's complete lack of a response to the tiny round, continuing it's charge down the street unimpeded, those massive horns bent backwards in a natural battering ram. Beside him, Nina raised her staff and shouted a word in a language he didn't recognize. Directly in front of the thing a green hieroglyphic flared to life, briefly illuminating the beast as a pillar of air punched outward from Nina's staff like a hydraulic piston, kicking up debris and loose chunks of concrete in it's wake.

The tank-sized mass of shadow, muscle and hatred jumped over it.

Gobsmacked, Oliver and Nina both watched as the massive thing damn near flew almost thirty feet into the air, utterly impossible and yet right in front of their eyes. For a good seven seconds it hung in the sky, tail thrashing, before it landed directly in front of the pair, cracking the concrete and giving Oliver his first good look as it came into the light of the gas station.

It was as wide as _Schrödinger,_ easy, but maybe a touch shorter, with the head of a meanest looking goat Oliver had ever seen in his life. White fur and tan skin stretched over it's muscle-bound body. It's front legs were those of a lion, tipped in razor sharp claws longer than his forearm, while the back legs were cloven, like a goat's. Those horns were even worse up close, shiny and glossy black, tipped with rust-red blood. And then he saw the tail; a ten-foot long, green-blue diamondback rattlesnake that never stopped moving or snapping it's dripping fangs. Just as Oliver thought it couldn't get any worse, it rose onto it's back legs, and he was forced to crane his neck. On the thing's chest, where a collarbone would've been on a human, was a lion's head, with spot-light red eyes and massive teeth.

 _Now_ it was taller than _Schrödinger._

The Chimera looked down at Oliver and Nina, pulled it's arms back and roared so loud that he felt himself slide backwards, the back of it's throat glowing with orange light. Oliver realized what was about to happen a half-second before it did. Though he never understood the term before, he felt time slow to a crawl as flames rose up the Chimera's throat, hot enough to easily melt steel and reduce both him and Nina to ash in seconds. He heard _Schrödinger's_ turret turning in response to the monster's sudden proximity, but it was too slow, much too slow. He felt his heartbeat thunder in his ears as the fire licked passed the Chimera's tongue and begin to escape it's mouth. Pain erupted at the base of Oliver's skull, and he suddenly felt _something_ at the edge of his mind, so familiar yet alien that it was maddening, like a word at the tip of his tongue.

Then, all at once, it was there, like a muscle he didn't even know was there until this exact instant.

As the fire rushed passed the Chimera's jaws, Oliver flexed the new muscle with a thought and reached out with his hand like he had done it a thousand times, exerting his will through the outstretched limb. The fire obeyed, and the white-hot stream abruptly stopped dead in the air, just in front of the monster's shining teeth, steam hissing and water snapping. Time regained it's usual tempo, and Oliver felt the strain of using the muscle immediately, beads of sweat popping up across his forehead as more and more flame pooled in front of the Chimera's mouth. Even from a distance the heat baked his face. Combined with the icy rain stinging his neck it almost broke his concentration, but he managed to _just_ hold a certainly unpleasant death back. With a shaky, uneven breath Oliver pushed out with both mind and hand, the ball of fire receding into the Chimera's jaws with a high-pitched sound of surprise from the massive creature.

With an exhausted shout and one final surge of mental energy, Oliver forced the whole of the fireball back down the Chimera's throat. The monster immediately crashed to the ground and began thrashing in agony, it's chest glowing bright orange like someone was shining a giant flashlight through it, steam began to secrete from all three pairs of eyeballs and then-

 _POP!_

With a sound disturbingly akin to someone stabbing a balloon with a needle, the Chimera was ripped in half by the mini-explosion that had just gone off in it's chest cavity. Chunks of charred meat flew into the sky, the ungodly stench of burned fur filled Oliver's sinuses, and he would've hit the pavement face-first if Nina hadn't grabbed him. He felt like someone had filled his mouth with sand and his skull with cotton balls, even as bitter cold rain chilled him to the bone. Vaguely aware that Nina was dragging him somewhere, Oliver let his head loll onto her shoulder as he squeezed his eyes shut to stop the universe from spinning and _fuck_ when did it get so bright?

Eventually, he heard her mutter something in the same language as before, and the pain in his head was slowly replaced a fuzzy, warm sensation that Oliver recognized as a painkiller of some kind. Then, as his eyelids began to get too heavy to hold, he thought, _Oooooh, anesthetic too. Nice._

His dreams, thankfully, were uneventful.

* * *

(Ooohhh yeah. Oliver can firebend now.

Kinda.

Sorta.

Not really.

You'll see.)


	7. Manpower

(Alright, for whatever reason, I could not get this chapter to turn out the way I wanted for the longest time. Sorry for the stupidly long delay.)

-O-

Oliver woke up with a painful throbbing in the back of his head and a pang in his gut. He cracked open an eye and flinched as light from the setting sun hit it. Shifting onto his side, away from the stabbing brightness, he tried to take in where he was. He was in a bed, with a comfortable but cheap mattress and cotton covers, which he was laid on top of. The rest of the room was plain. A desk in one corner, a nightstand to his immediate left and a large window against the wall, curtains drawn tight, a sliver of sunlight peeking underneath. A door that he assumed lead to the bathroom was adjacent to the door leading to the hall, and it seemed to be dark. Even though he was wearing only a white tank top and boxers, he barely felt chill, even though it was December in Colorado.

Putting a pin in that train of thought, Oliver tired to sit up, only to be sent crashing back onto the covers as pain suddenly flared up at the base of his skull. A terrible, red-hot pressure began to build in his head, left him breathless and writhing silently on the bed, fingers clawing at his hair in a vain attempt to acquire some kind of relief. It built and built and built until it felt like his skull was going to split open and paint the walls in his gray matter and-

* * *

 ** _The mountain wind cut through my cloak like so many frozen arrows._**

 ** _My fingers were clamped around my walking staff, stiff and unresponsive._**

 ** _Then, suddenly, it was calm._**

 ** _I looked up and my breath caught in my throat._**

 ** _The countryside spread out before me, villages and towns dotting the green expanse._**

 ** _And in the distance, shining on seven hills, lay my target._**

 ** _Behind me, one hundred thousand throats let out a cry of triumph as they too caught sight of the glorious vista._**

 ** _Despite being in full view of my men, I allowed myself a small, savage grin._**

 ** _It was time for Rome to bleed._**

* * *

-fresh, sweet air flooded his lungs as Oliver's eyes shot open, back arching up. The pain slowly dissipated, his head cleared, and a relieved sigh escaped his lips as he flopped back onto the bed. Whatever the hell that was, it seemed to be a release of some kind. He closed his eyes to will away some of the residual throbbing and sat up in the bed, rubbing his temples in small circles. This was the second experience he's had in as many days. Both started with a pain in the back of his head, and both showed some kind of event from the past. They were both vivid, and he only started seeing them after he came back. There had to be a connection there, somewhere, but Oliver just could not find out where it was, and it was starting to get on his nerves.

There was a knock on the door, and Oliver nearly jumped out of his skin. He said nothing, and after a beat of silence a voice called out, "Room service!"

Even though his stomach writhed at the words and their implications, he sure as shit didn't order any room service. Maybe one of his teammates ordered it? Then where were they? Common sense told him that they were probably gathering information or supplies, and were confidant that he would be safe in the room. Paranoia told him that it was another one of Apollo's agents, trying to trick him into opening the door so that they can avenge the God's sister. Then again, that would imply that there are Godlings with attention spans long enough to form a plan that didn't involve them just charging in blindly, and Oliver had yet to meet any. Still...

He didn't reply, and the voice called out again, "Sir! Room service!"

Oliver ignored the voice and walk/limped over to the desk in the corner of the room. The back of his knee still throbbed softly from where the Godling had hit it with a bat, but it wasn't as bad as it had been. On top of the desk was his set of winter camouflage fatigues, as well as some civilian clothing; a pair of jeans, socks, boots and a fur-lined, brown leather bomber jacket. Next to the clothes was a note with tight, neat handwriting on it.

 _Boss,_

 _Denali and Rosa are keeping lookout in the lobby and on the roof, respectively, I'm doing some scouting magic, and Kevin went out to get real food. The stuff they got here is shit. He should be right back. And don't worry, you've only been out for a few hours. We're close enough to our destination to have a bit of time to kill, so just relax. Doctor's orders._

 _-Nina_

 _P.S. Like the new threads? Picked 'em out for you myself._

 _P.P.S Weapons in the drawers. Just in case._

Oliver put the note down and wasted zero time slinging on his holsters, looking over the two outfits on the desk. He doubted that he'd need the camouflage any time soon, so he threw on the civilian clothing over what he was already wearing. Though it wasn't what he would pick himself, he had to admit; the fur lining of the jacket was very comfortable. As he got dressed, the knocking of the lady outside came to an abrupt halt. He waited a few seconds before pulling the drawer open. Inside were his two .45 handguns, his Ka-Bar knife, and an extra magazine for both firearms. As he slid home the weapons into their respective holders, he heard voices somewhere outside his door. They sounded hushed to him.

Oliver kept the Ka-Bar in his hand as he forced himself to heel-toe towards the door, held slightly behind his back. Though he was more comfortable with a gun, in such close quarters a knife was the better choice. It was easier to rush forward a step and stab or slash than it was to bring a handgun to bear on something vital. He tried to count the voices, but it was difficult to discern the differences in them through the wall and door. Three, at least. Stab the first, pull them into a human shield, leave the knife in their chest, draw a handgun, shoot the remaining two, get some answers out of the one with a Ka-Bar in their chest, leave. Like how they got past Rosa and Denali, for example. Plan formed, he rehearsed the motions in his mind's eye to get them perfect before lifting one eye up to the peephole in the door.

Across the hall, the maid lady was handing over a platter of food to the occupant of the room, joking about, "The wrong room."

Oliver blinked, watching as the maid lady closed the door and disappeared down the hall. He slid the Ka-Bar back into it's sheath with a shuddering breath, silently thankful.

A few minutes later as Oliver was cleaning his handguns, another knock banged against the door, this time accompanied by Kevin's welcome voice, "Yo boss, open up! Got some food."

Kevin stood in the hallway, arms laden with cheap-looking brown paper bags that smelled like heaven. He was also dressed in civvies, an olive army jacket and matching pants. He grinned brightly at Oliver as he strode into the room, shutting the door behind him with a soft kick. He dropped the bags onto the table and said, "Wasn't sure what you preferred, so I got a little bit of everything."

Oliver was about to turn him down when he felt a tremor pass through his stomach, and then the smell of greasy meat and fries really hit him. He reached into one of the bags and pulled out what smelled like a bacon cheese burger and a giant thing of fries. Before he knew it, there were two empty wrappers in front of him, and he was three quarters through the fries when he remembered to breath. Kevin raised an eyebrow at him but said nothing, leaning against the wall and chewing slowly on his own burger. Oliver set his third burger down on the desk and asked, "What happened after I went out?"

Kevin started to answer, realized he still had a mouthful of food, swallowed, and then answered, "Well, Nina did some of her healing magic straight away, and then-"

Oliver cut him off, "No, I mean what happened to me after I went out? 'Cause I feel fuckin' awful right about now."

The grin died from Kevin's face, and he started messing with the burger in his hands like he wasn't sure what to do with it, "It uh... it was real bad, boss."

Oliver told him again, but the look on the normally jovial big man's face made his stomach twist, and he had to force the iron into his words, "What happened?"

Kevin let out a long, shuddering sigh and said, "You were bleedin' from the eyes and nose, skin was steamin' like you were being cooked from inside out, shakin' like you were havin' a seizure," he put his burger down on the desk, his hands shaking slightly, but noticeably, "and you were... you were talkin', too."

Oliver felt his mouth and throat go dry, and he too put down the burger. He was almost afraid to ask, but he did it anyway, "What was I sayin', Kevin?"

"That's the thing, boss; we don't know. Wasn't Greek or Latin, Egyptian or Norse or anything in between. Sounded like gibberish to me, but Nina insisted it was a language of some kind."

Oliver sighed and rubbed his forehead. Of fuckin' course it was some mystery language. He tapped his fingers against the desk and forced his mind away from the topic. There were more important things at hand, and he had to focus on them. He asked Kevin, "When do we bug out?"

Kevin blinked at him, "Uh, boss, I'm not sure if you're-"

"When, Kevin?"

There was a beat of silence, before Kevin answered, "We can leave when Nina gets back from scouting ahead, in about," he checked a small watch from his pocket, "ten minutes. I got _Schrödinger_ parked outta town a ways. Want me to go get her started?"

Oliver just nodded, and Kevin disappeared out the door and down the hall.

He bit his lip and glanced at the winter fatigues on the desk, folded and stacked neatly. With another sigh and a long look at the half-eaten burger on the desk, he stood up and started to change.

He wasn't hungry anymore, anyway.

* * *

The lobby of the hotel was small, clean, and dead quiet. There was a receptionist on duty, but he was utterly enthralled with the novel in his hands. Oliver sat in one of the admittedly comfortable chairs, while Denali stood in the corner next to the door, his slight frame and positioning rendering him all but invisible to anyone entering. There were two slight bulges in his jacket, hiding the two Glock 18s he kept on him at all times from any untrained eye. Though how he was supposed to use two full auto machine pistols at once, Oliver had no clue.

He was thinking about what he saw, trying to form connections and make sense of them when he heard Rosa's lightly accented voice buzz in through the short-range radio in his ear, "Be advised Lobby, possible contacts approaching. Vans, black, armored assumin' that extra bulk ain't just for show. How copy?"

A bit earlier, when Oliver had asked how Rosa was supposed to keep overwatch with a shotgun, she had simply replied, "Slugs."

Oliver glanced up at Denali. The smaller man just nodded and, if possible, shrank even further back into the corner. Oliver pressed his finger to his ear and replied, "Solid copy, Roof. How many?"

There was a few seconds of silence, before her voice came back, "Four. No plates, windows are tinted. Please advise."

Oliver frowned. Armored, unmarked black vans? That didn't sound like Godlings to him. He glanced at Denali. He shrugged. Sighing, Oliver pressed the radio again, "ETA?"

"Thirty seconds."

Oliver licked his lips. Every time Godlings have come for him, they rode in on Pegasi. Why would they change that pattern now? Then again, they did start forging entirely new swords just to kill him. But these weren't just pieces of metal attached to leather; if the description Rosa gave was accurate, these were secret service level vehicles. You can't just bang one of those out on an anvil or whatever, much less four.

"Twenty seconds."

He chewed his lip and muttered a curse to himself, glancing at the watch on the wall. Nina was still four minutes away, and Kevin was all the way across town. He made sure he was still armed, he was, before standing up and pointing at the ground, saying to Denali, "Stay here. They kill me, kill them back, then continue as planned."

The mute just raised an eyebrow, but stayed where he was. Oliver nodded and pressed a finger to the radio, "Roof, going out. Only fire if conflict comes up, copy?"

Rosa responded after a brief pause, "Solid copy, Lobby. Ten seconds."

Denali gave him a thumbs up while his face remained placid while Oliver rose from his chair and stepped out into the cold Nebraska night. The hotel was outside the city limits of Fremont, Nebraska, and the quaint little buildings seemed like blocks from this distance. A few cars were spread out in the hotel's parking lot in front of him. Part of him wished Kevin hadn't taken the Humvee. He would feel much more confidant facing down the mystery machines from behind a .50 cal. Just like Rosa said, four big, black vans were trundling up the road towards him, the setting winter sun causing the left side of the chassis to gleam. They formed up in a semi-circle in front of the hotel, engines eerily quiet for such big machines. Oliver forced himself to look calm, hands folded behind his back to hide the shaking.

For about two hundred years the vans were still, until the one that had been leading the pack opened it's passenger door, and a thin figure stepped out. He was wearing a crisp, slate gray suit, black hair slicked back, a pair of dark tinted glasses resting on his nose. As he strode up to Oliver, the rest of the vans opened their side doors, and men began disembarking. These weren't any Godlings Oliver's ever seen; they were in full combat armor, camouflaged for winter. They each had assault rifles in their arms, helmets with thermal goggles attached to them.

It seemed that the vans were packed to capacity, and Oliver's heart fell through his gut as at least two dozen of them poured out. And as he watched them form up into a half-moon in front of him, barrels pointed at the ground, he realized that no, these weren't Godlings. These were professionals.

The thin man was about three yards away when he stopped and planted his feet into the ground. He reached up and pulled away his glasses, revealing a pair of mismatched eyes, causing Oliver's heart to stop. Suddenly, he was back in Vermont, a lifetime ago, fighting off a monster with a man's face, and a man's name.

Thorn's face split into a broad smile, and his heavy French accented voice similarly split the silence, "Oliver Irons, I presume?"

Oliver's fingers were around one of his handguns before he fully realized what he was doing. He forced himself to breath, and he slowly unwind his fingers from his weapon. He cleared his throat and answered, "The fuck are you doing here, monster?"

If anything, Thorn's grin only widened at the insult. He said, "Monsieur Irons, I assure you that I mean you no harm," he bowed his head slightly, "quite the contrary, in fact."

Oliver squeezed his hands into fists and almost shouted at the Manticore in disguise, "What do you mean?"

Thorn straightened his back and began, "To ensure that the mission at hand is completed in a satisfactory manner, our gracious Patron has deemed it necessary to give you command over me," he placed his hand on his chest, "as well as a platoon of the Sons of Saturn's finest."

As he said that he swept his hand back at the assembled men in a kind of bow, who planted the butts of their rifles into the concrete and kneeled, bowing their own heads down.

Oliver felt his mouth go dry. The Sons of Saturn. One of the premiere paramilitary organizations in North America. They made up for their relative lack of numbers with near-fanatical devotion, discipline, and ruthlessness. Somehow, Gaea had either hired them to listen to some twenty year old with gray hair, or was pulling their strings all together. If Oliver had to bet, it was the latter.

And now he had a platoon of them.

Thorn looked up and placed his dark glasses back on his face, arms behind his back, that damn grin still plastered on his face, "What are your orders, Commandant?"


	8. The Man with the Golden Touch

(I'm back. Took me long enough, eh?)

-O-

The drive through Nebraska was at once one of the most relaxing and stress-filled experiences of Oliver's lives. The relaxing side came from the rolling, pleasing landscape breezing past him in various shades of green and blue. Rolling hills flowed in green waves and mountains pierced the clouds in the horizon. Paired with this idyllic imagery, however, was the ever present reflection of armored black vans in his rear-view mirror. The Sons of Saturn were a blessing and a curse in Oliver's eyes: he was never one to pass up an advantage, and two dozen Grade-A mercenaries was one hell of an advantage, but it was the monster in charge of them that put a damper on it. Oliver didn't quite trust Thorn, no matter how many time he called him 'Commandant', and that night in Vermont still haunted him at night. Though it seemed that Gaea had put a leash on the Manticore, Oliver had ordered Rosa to keep an eye on him as long as he traveled with them. Just in case.

As the convoy approached their destination clouds gathered, blanketed the sky in a white-gray shroud, and it began to snow. At first it was light, only lightly coating the road ahead of them. And then, exponentially, it began to come down harder. Eventually, when they were only about an hour away from the compound, the snow was coming down in thick sheets of flakes the size of a half-dollar. Oliver smelled magic, and when he asked Thorn over the comm-line if he knew anything about it, the Manticore replied with, "One of our allies is providing us with protection from sight, magical or otherwise. Apparently these Demigods we are after have slighted her, and she has agreed to join our cause."

Oliver wasn't quite sure how a snowstorm could shield two dozen mercenaries, the Manticore and a Tiger Two from sight, magical or otherwise, but he decided not to question it too hard.

The drive itself was relatively uneventful. The convoy had to stop a few times to refuel and reorient themselves in the snowstorm twice. Thankfully no Godlings had decided to come out of nowhere and start shit, but Oliver figured it was only a matter of time. However, once or twice during the drive, Oliver thought he saw dark shapes in the snow, moving just out of his periphery. He couldn't exactly make out what they were, as they seemed to disappear as soon as he looked head on, but they were big, easily taller than a horse. Again he consulted Thorn about what he saw, and he swore there was a grin in the monster's voice, "It has been more than a month since you killed the Hunter Goddess, Commandant. Without her hunt to keep them under control, monsters have reigned all but unchecked in these parts of the country, growing stronger every day they are not slain."

Oliver sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering a curse under his breath before replying, "Think any of them would be willing to join us?"

"Oh, certainly not. The monsters in these wilds are untamed, so to speak, unwilling to listen to reason or obey a structure of command. They will most likely attack us on sight, given the opportunity," there was a slight pause before Thorn continued, "Werewolves would be the exception, I suppose. Kill the Alpha, and the rest of the pack is obligated to obey you. But, seeing as we don't have any silver on us, that would be rather difficult."

Oliver made a mental note to commission Maja for silver bullets when he got back to Fort Ignis.

After about an hour and a half of travel along dark, snow-covered highways and turning onto some lonely country road, Oliver saw their destination ahead. It was a huge white mansion, not unlike what you would see in the middle of Hollywood, with high stone walls capped with iron spikes and a large gate with a glided 'M' on the front. The convoy stopped in the driveway leading up to the mansion, with Oliver's car next to the callbox next to the gate. After pulling his balaclava down to protect his face from the thick snowflakes pouring from the sky he leaned out of the window and pressed the buzzer, calling out to it, "Midas, open up! We're here to see you on behalf of Lady Gaea!"

The callbox was quiet for a minute before a young, masculine voice answered, "You're here to deal with the Demigods that are due to fly overhead?"

Oliver yelled again as the wind kicked up suddenly, "We are!"

The voice said, "One moment."

After what felt like half an hour the gate swung open, parting the 'M' straight down the middle. The courtyard was bigger than Oliver expected, almost the size of a baseball infield, and the convoy had little trouble finding a place to park. Oliver climbed out of the driver's side, G36c slung over his shoulder, winter camouflage keeping him relativity warm as the rest of the convoy disembarked. The Sons of Saturn formed up into two rows of twelve with Thorn in front of them, apparently unbothered by the biting cold in his crisp gray suit. He pointed at the center of the courtyard, "Get set up. If you brought any bigger guns with you, I want'em unpacked and ready to get hot by the time I'm back out here," he moved his point to where Kevin and Rosa were preparing _Schrödinger,_ "Your primary objective is to protect the tank. After we take down the dragon, I'll take half of the Sons, Denali and Nina to retrieve the Godlings, while the rest of you stay here and hold down the fort. Understood?"

Thorn snapped a salute and turned on his heel to the mercenaries, barking out orders, who in turn returned to the vans and began unpacking cases of ammunition and parts. Oliver gestured for Denali and Nina to follow him, and then turned towards the mansion, windows burning with light, "Time for a talk with our host."

* * *

The main hall of the mansion was big. Not quite as big as the one back at Fort Ignis, but it was still a bit of a shock to Oliver as he walked through the door and he saw the gold. Huge, dark windows lined the walls, and an enormous golden chandelier hung from the ceiling. There were several pieces of furniture, couches and chairs and ottomans and small tables, all solid gold. Even the curtains hanging from the windows appeared to be made of metallic thread, gleaming in the light from the chandelier. But what made Nina gasp and Denali scowl beside him were the golden statues. There were about a dozen of them, most depicting demigods with swords or other weapons, but one was a man in robes with a pair of shears in his hands, a look of shock on his face. And another was of a little girl, horror etched onto her golden features.

Across the room sat a gilded chair on a slightly raised dais, resembling a throne too much for it to be a coincidence. And in that 'throne' was a pudgy man with dark hair, his legs crossed, drinking some kind of hot drink from a golden mug. He was wearing a fine Italian suit that looked as though it were spun from gold silk, and a matching bowler hat that looked just a bit off to Oliver for a reason he couldn't place. Midas. Standing to the right of the throne was a young man with dark, curly hair, a sword at his side and a shirt that said 'Cornhuskers'. Oliver assumed he was the one who had answered the callbox. Though judging by the way his face was sliced up like a holiday ham, Oliver would've pegged him as a bodyguard rather than a manservant.

Midas gave the trio a broad grin as they approached the dais and stopped a few feet in front of him, "Greetings, guests. Oh, it is so good to have company over who _aren't_ trying to kill you for once, isn't it Lit?"

The young man, apparently named Lit, just nodded, "It is, father."

Midas waved his hand, "Forgive my son, he has not yet grasped the art of conversation," the grin seemed to grow even wider, "but the art of the blade, now there is where he is unmatched."

Oliver wasn't really sure how to answer, so he just nodded and said, "Well, we're here to-"

Midas cut him off, "Yes yes, the polite German fellow who contacted me yesterday explained it all: you're here to capture the Demigods who will fly over my territory in about," he rolled up his sleeve and checked the golden Rolex on his wrist, "five minutes, but I do not see why that must get in the way of pleasantries, is it, Lit?"

Lit said, "No, father."

Midas gestured at his soon, "See? Even Lit, and I mean no insult my boy, understands the rules of hospitality that hosts are obligated to follow."

But Oliver wasn't really paying attention. _Five minutes?_ They really did cut it close. He said, "One moment, sir," and turned to Nina and Denali. They seemed to understand what he was getting at and huddled closer towards him.

Nina whispered, "I don't like this, man. You know that little girl is his daughter, right? Who does that? We gotta do somethin' about that."

Oliver nodded in agreement, but said, "I get what you mean, but that isn't our place to get involved. We just need to do our job and get out, with as few complications as possible," she still looked uncomfortable, so Oliver added, "You really wanna piss off Gaea by fuckin' with Midas's shtick? Think of the big picture here, Nina."

It was obviously still bothering her, but the Magician pursed her lips and said "Fine. Should I go outside and help with the prep? I really don't wanna be in here any longer than I need to be."

Oliver nodded approval and she left without another word, magic box held tight against her hip. Denali stayed, face placid but eyebrow raised slightly. Oliver sighed and rubbed his face, "Don't give me that look. You wanna leave, too?"

The smaller man glanced out the window, at the snowstorm and the mercenaries, and shook his head. Oliver breathed a silent sigh of relief. Truth be told, Oliver didn't feel very comfortable in here either, with the golden statues staring at him in wide-eyed horror, but he needed to set an example. And, frankly, the guy was just a comforting presence, like a bodyguard. Turning back to Midas Oliver folded his hands behind his back and projected his voice to give off an air of confidence that he didn't feel, "Sir, we are grateful for your hospitality and willingness to assist us, but if you wouldn't mind, we need to get back to-"

In the middle of his sentence the yard erupted into noise. He heard shouting from the Sons of Saturn, and Kevin's voice sputtered into his ear through the radio, "Boss, we've spotted them. Coming in hot, north by northeast."

Oliver glanced at Denali, gave a short nod to Midas and said, "Excuse me, sir. We have a dragon to kill."

With that he gave the former King a short bow, turned on his heel and marched out of the hall, trying to scrub from his memory the image of the golden girl's face, open in a silent scream.

Dammit, he needed a cigarette.

* * *

The courtyard was transformed. Only a few minutes ago it was sparse, but nice, with a few frozen flower beds and a small fountain in the middle. Now the Sons of Saturn were encamped in the area, sandbags piled up in an improvised defensive fortification around _Schrödinger._ Half of the mercenaries were behind the sandbags, with a .30 caliber machine gun, manned by three of the Sons, pointed at the gate leading out of the mansion. The other half milled about the yard, checking weapons and armor or just watching the dragon soar above them. There was a pair of huge spotlights set up in the middle of the yard manned by a Son each, connected to a generator, pointed at the sky as one of the mercenaries held a pair of binoculars up to his face, rattling off a list of coordinates into a radio. In response to the new information, _Schrödinger's_ turret whirred it's motors and traced a smooth path, pointed at a near forty-five degree angle. Oliver followed the projected path of _Schrödinger's_ shot, and his breath caught in his throat as he laid eyes on the dragon.

It was tiny from this distance, about three inches across, but it gleamed like a mirror from the powerful lights trained on it. And if he squinted really hard, he thought he could see tiny specks riding on the back of the beast. Kevin's voice once again crackled in his ear, "Just give the word, boss."

Oliver waited for the dragon to be almost directly overheard to make sure it was as close as possible when it crashed, before pressing a finger to the radio and ordering, his voice breaking the abrupt silence that had filled the courtyard, "Fire."

Even though he braced himself, the resounding _**BOOM**_ that erupted from _Schrödinger's_ 88mm cannon still hit him like a truck. It shook him down to the bones and made his ears ring as all of the snow that had built up around the war machine was suddenly flung upward into the air from the power of the weapon. But Oliver kept his eyes glued on the mission at hand and, after an agonizing moment of silence, the dragon flared to life in an eruption of red-tinged light. It fell like a meteorite out of the sky, streaking overhead as friction super-heated the bronze and made it glow vibrant orange through the cold winter night. One of the mercenaries spoke up in a high-pitched, child-like voice, "Santa?"

And even though it was the blackest kind of humor, Oliver found himself grinning as the rest of the Sons of Saturn either chuckled or laughed outright. He felt himself worry, though, that there weren't going to be any Godlings at the crash site to bring back. Or, rather, that the pieces they found were going to be enough to placate Gaea. Shaking his head in an attempt to rid himself of the doubt, he unslung his G36c from his shoulder, flicked the safety off and yelled, "A-Squad, moving out!"

Whatever, Godlings come a dime a dozen. Worst case scenario, they would need to ask Midas if they could borrow some body bags.

Or trash bags, as the case may be.


	9. Aspects

(Man, I'm shit at keeping a schedule, aren't I? Sorry about all of these delays, but we're nearing the end of the school year, so we have all kinds of tests and shit to do. Ah well. Here's one chapter that was going to to be two chapters but I decided to merge. Enjoy)

-O-

Oliver didn't need the thermal goggles mounted atop his helmet to see where the dragon landed. The chassis of the metal beast was glowing red-hot like a lantern, even in the bitter cold Nebraska snow, which was starting to come down even harder. Aside from the cherry-red corpse of the dragon, visibility was almost zero in the deep night of December. Dark flurries of powder-like snow would occasionally kick up, forcing Oliver to stop and wait for it to subside, least he get turned around or lost outright. The twelve Sons of Saturn were spread out in a loose fan behind him, with Denali and Nina on his immediate left and right, respectively. Oliver briefly considered asking the Magician to clear the weather entirely, but realized that even if she could it would most likely drain her power at an alarming pace, so he didn't bother. He occasionally glanced over his shoulder at Midas's mansion, partially to reassure himself that he could find his way back in this damn snow, and partially to make sure he had a place to retreat to in case this little operation went sideways.

When the squad was about fifty feet away Oliver raised up a closed fist to signal a halt. By now, he could just about see the silhouettes of a few humanoid shapes in front of the dragon's super-heated body. He pressed the radio at his collar, tapping into the comm-line for A-Squad, "Denali, take half of the men and circle around to the other side. Do not engage unless I give the word."

Denali gave a hum of acknowledgment and, along with six of the mercenaries, disappeared into the dark of the snow. Oliver waited a minute or two to allow them to get into position, before checking his rifle one more time and dropping his hand to signal the advance. The crunching of boots on snow along with the blood pumping in his ears seemed to fill the air to Oliver's head. As the group approached the now-cooling body of the dragon, he saw that one of the Godlings, a short male, was crouched over it, fiddling with something near the bronze beast's head. He kept his rifle half-lowered, finger on the trigger, and slowly approached the three, six mercenaries and one magician at his back. One of the Godlings, the girl, saw them approach and frantically tapped the other boy, the tall blonde one, on the shoulder, pointing and saying something Oliver couldn't make out over the wind. The blonde turned towards them, grimaced, and said something to the boy crouched next to the dragon, who responded with something that sounded like a curse.

By now Oliver and A-Squad were only about ten feet away from the dragon's body, and now he saw just how big the thing was; fifty feet long at least, and tall as _Schrödinger,_ with wickedly sharp bronze claws as long as his forearm and a jaw that looked strong enough to crack concrete. But he also saw the damage _Schrödinger's_ cannon had done to it: a burning, twisted hole bigger than Oliver's head was set in the middle of the dragon's chest. Though the rest of it's body had began to cool off, the metal surrounding the hole was still glowing orange and hissing as snow landed. He felt a twinge of remorse in his chest as he looked over the body of the magnificent monster, and what he had ordered done to it. But an idea also began forming in his head as he looked at the damage, and he had to force himself to focus on the task at hand. The blonde had a sword at his hip, which he rested one hand on as he came to a stop a few feet in front of the line of armed men. Oliver had to give him credit; if he was afraid, he didn't show it. The girl and the other boy stayed near the dragon.

There was silence for several long moments as the blonde's gaze shifted up and down the line of mercenaries before he spoke, his voice somehow cutting through the wind, "Who are you?"

Oliver stepped forward, lowering his rifle and saying, "The people who don't want any bloodshed. Come peacefully, Godling. You don't want this fight."

As a way to back up the statement, the Sons of Saturn behind him made as many intimidating mechanical noises with their guns as possible. Oliver had to admit it sounded cool as hell, but the Godling didn't seem impressed. He scowled and adjusted the grip on his sword's pommel, "You say you don't want bloodshed, yet you shoot us down? That statement and those actions don't match up, Mortal."

Oliver shrugged, "Maybe not, but who isn't a hypocrite these days? Now," he raised his rifle and settled the sights on the blonde's chest, "hands on your head. And tell your friends to step away from the dragon."

The blonde didn't move, but the girl rose and moved to his side. Even though her winter jacket was torn to hell and her face was covered in soot, she was one of the most attractive girls Oliver had ever seen, and with a voice to match, "Oh, I'm sure this is just a big misunderstanding! Now, why don't you put down the guns and we can work this out?"

Oliver was inclined to agree with her. After all, there were probably a bunch of Godlings who can ride on metal dragons, right? Maybe they got the wrong one. They probably did, come to think of it, it was really dark out. He glanced to his left and right and gave a short sigh of relief when he saw the mercenaries slowly begin to lower their guns. Even Nina had her staff planted in the ground, a strange look on her face. Maybe he should just let them-

The pain came from the back of his head and flashed through the brain matter to the front of his skull in an instant. It was a cold, burning feeling, filling his head and whisking the air from his lungs from the sheer intensity of it. But his mind was cleared, and he heard the Charmspeak for what it was. Fury filled his heart, and a growl rumbled in his throat as the cold-burn intensified in his head. Who did this Godling think she was, trying to charm him like some low-life thug? Who did she think she was, not realizing who she was playing with? What she was dealing with? His thoughts escaped him as his body went into auto-pilot, and he drew one of the handguns at his belt, aiming it and shooting her in the center of her torso in one smooth motion. The gunshot snapped in the air like a whip, the .45 caliber round punched right through her chest and out of her back. Blood bloomed in a crimson circle, staining her white winter jacket. She crumpled to the ground like a puppet with it's strings cut.

The blonde screamed something something, but the blood pounding in Oliver's ears drowned it out. Whether Oliver could hear him or not, the next immediate threat was the blonde, who had drawn his sword and was already almost in Oliver's face. A kind of savage joy filled his cold-burning chest, and he rushed forward to meet him. At some point he had dropped his rifle, but that didn't bother him as much as he thought it would. The blonde went in for a stab and Oliver deflected it aside with his left hand, but before he could train his handgun on the blonde's chest as well the Godling thrust out his hand. The smell of ozone and burnt hair filled his nose, pain exploded in his chest, snow was kicked into the air by the invisible force, and his stomach dropped through his shoes as weightlessness took hold.

Oliver crashed through the snow and hit the unforgiving ground beneath. All the air came out of his lungs in a single _woosh,_ and the back of his head cracked against frozen, hard-packed dirt. The cold-burn flashed even colder, light exploded behind his eyes and-

* * *

 ** _My breath came in ragged bursts, lungs burning_**

 ** _My arms were lead, numb from combat_**

 ** _The taste of blood was thick in my mouth, choking me_**

 ** _The pounding of my heart, like a drumbeat it filled the air_**

 ** _My enemy roared, and I smiled_**

* * *

-he gasped, his back arched into the air. The cold-burn flashed throughout his entire body, rushing through his veins, shocking his nervous system. And then, abruptly, it dissolved, leaving behind a vague, numb sensation. _What was that,_ he wondered, _how did I do that?_ Oliver shook his head to clear his mind of questions: that wasn't important right now. What was important was the mission. He wasn't sure how long he was out for, but it seemed in that time all hell had broken loose. Stuttering bursts of gunfire, screams of tearing metal and cries of pain filled the air. He groaned and lifted himself into a sitting position, rubbing his head and shaking off the snow that had coated his head and face. Then his eyes landed on what was happening, and he said to himself, "Oh, what the _fuck?"_

Somehow, impossibly, the metal dragon was alive again. The hole in it's chest was still gaping, still glowing slightly in the center, but that didn't seem to slow it down as it bit a mercenary clean in half, throwing the poor bastard fifty yards into the darkness of the snowstorm. On it's back he saw the smaller Godling ride the beast, shouting and whopping with every Son of Saturn it killed. The girl was somehow tied in place on it's back, still unconscious by the looks of it. Mercenaries, about seven of them, surrounded the monster in a loose circle, peppering it's hide with gunfire, and he thought he saw Denali among them, trying to draw it's attention by aiming at the face. Nina was engaged in a duel of winds with the blonde Godling, their clothing and most of the surrounding snow whipping about them in a mini-tornado. Though the two seemed to be equally matched, Oliver saw that he was slowly gaining ground, that sword flashing dull-silver in the light of the gunfire.

Oliver aimed with his handgun and went to pull the trigger, only to realize that his hand was filled with nothing. He had dropped his handgun somewhere during his fall and crash. Cursing, he drew the second pistol he kept in the holster behind his back. He racked the slide and was about to dive into the fray when he stopped. He looked at the .45 in his hand, then at the dragon, who was getting hit with hundreds of rifle-grade ammunition and barely slowing down. To the .45, to the dragon. It wasn't enough. Trivial. Pointless. He swore and threw the handgun into the snow as the cold began to really feel the snow. Some of it had gotten underneath his collar and balaclava, and now his neck was beginning to go numb. Another scream tore through the air as another Son of Saturn was torn to shreds. They needed something big, right now, or they were all going to be killed by some big stupid fuckin' robot dragon and it was going to be his fault they failed and he was going to go back to hell no he didn't wanna go back please-

Everything stopped. The gunfire stopped chattering. The dragon froze, it's jaws wide open, the back of it's throat glowing ominously. Snowflakes and bullets hung in the air, side-by-side. Oliver swallowed and briefly wondered if he was dying when a voice, deep and accented, spoke up to his right.

 _"God's wounds man, it's just a dragon. And not even a real one, at that."_

Oliver jumped and turned. Standing a few feet away, somehow not breaking the snow despite standing atop it, was a man. He was tall, taller than Oliver and a good deal more muscular, with long blonde hair tied back in a warrior's braid and a wild blonde beard. His eyes were the coldest shade of blue Oliver had ever seen, though they were warm with humor as the mystery man cocked an eyebrow. He was dressed in armor made from interlocking scales that gleamed like silver, and a long white fur cloak was wrapped around his shoulders. He wasn't armed, yet Oliver had a feeling that this was one of those people who didn't need a weapon to be lethal.

He rose to his feet and cleared his throat, asking, "Who are you? What's going on?"

The man gave a shallow bow that seemed a bit cheeky and responded, " _My name is Beowulf, Godkiller. Honored to meet you."_

Oliver blinked at him and, unsure how to respond, decided to follow the Danish legend's lead and bowed in return, "The honor is mine, Beowulf."

Beowulf's other eyebrow joined his first, and he said, " _You aren't surprised about who I am?"_

Oliver gave a weary shrug and confessed, "A little bit, but it's just been a really long couple of days and I'm just burned out right about now. Now, tell me what's going on. What are you doing here?"

The warrior smiled and spread his hands, " _I was not doing anything; **you** are the one who brought **me** here."_

Oliver blinked and started at him for a few moments before the answer hit him like a truck, "That vision," he said, "something about the vision I just had summoned you, or something?"

Beowulf sighed and rubbed his face, " _You're so close to the truth, Keeper, but you must find the answer to that question on your own. In the meantime, I believe we have a dragon to fight."_

Oliver was about to ask what was so special about that last vision that it summoned an ancient Danish hero, when he heard what he said, "We?"

Beowulf just smiled and held out his hand, as though he expected a shake. Oliver looked at the outstretched hand and considered his options. There was no way that they had enough firepower to kill the dragon, not without _Schrödinger_ here. But since the Tiger Two was back at the mansion, their best bet would be Nina, who was currently in a heated duel with the blonde Godling. The mercenaries were getting ripped apart like tissue paper, and their rifles seemed to be doing exactly dick against the beast's armored hide. He looked back at the Beowulf's offer and, with a sneaking suspicion as to what was about to happen, took the legend's hand. A deep, glacial blue highlighted the warrior's form, and he disappeared in a flash of light. At the same time, the cold-burn feeling returned and raced up his arm along with the dark blue light as his veins seemed to glow. It felt different this time, though. It wasn't as wild as before. More... consistent, as it spread through his body evenly, coming to a stop at the base of his skull.

Beowulf's voice manifested in his mind, _You have my strength, Godkiller. Use it_ _._

Time resumed. The dragon roared and fire came gushing forth like a hose, bathing two mercenaries in the napalm. Oliver took in a breath. The air seemed cleaner now, fresher, more packed with oxygen. The blonde Godling flung out his arms, and Nina went tumbling to the ground, her staff flying from her grasp. Oliver let the breath out as the pleasant, cold-burn feeling he now recognized as power settled in his limbs. Denali was sent through the air as the dragon's tail crashed into him and a crack echoed across the battlefield. Oliver was crossing the snow before he knew it, arms pumping, muscles burning cold as he tackled a mercenary out of the way. A split second later the dragon's claws carved a deep gouge into the snow, kicking up dirt and grass from the force of it. It's eyes, two rubies as big as his fist, glowed hateful red as he stood in front of it, a mouse to an owl. It's other claw came whistling down, flashing in it's own ruby gaze.

And stopped dead in it's tracks as Oliver caught it. The cold-burn intensified for a moment, his veins glowed in correspondence. The dragon made a confused, grinding noise in the back of it's throat as Oliver took one of it's forearm-sized talons in his hand and pulled. The blade came loose with the sound of tearing metal, and Oliver shoved away the dragon's claw. It's jaw's opened wide, bronze teeth like finger long drill bits whirling in their sockets as it's head lashed down. The Keeper lifted his left arm in response, and the dragon bit down. Pain screamed in his arm, but the cold-burn soothed it somewhat and Oliver managed to keep from screaming himself. The awful, screeching sound of metal on metal filled the air as Oliver flipped his new knife over in his hand and stabbed downward, jamming the dragon's own talon in between it's ruby eye and it's socket.

The metal dragon screamed and let go of Oliver's arm, slashing at it's own face in an attempt to free it's eye, and failing horribly. The Godling on top of the dragon cried out and was about to climb forward to help his monster, when a bullet from one of the mercenaries caught him in the shoulder. He fell from the beast's back and disappeared into the snow. Oliver was about to advance and finish off the dragon, when the smell of ozone suddenly filled the air. Oliver flung himself onto the ground and buried his face in the snow. He felt more than he heard the bolt of lightning arc over his head, his hair standing on it's end and his skin prickling. He was on his feet in an instant, turning to face the blonde Godling. The blonde had his steel sword drawn in one hand, and a long golden javelin in the other, crackling with blue light. About half of the remaining mercenaries, now freed from the dragon's rampage, turned to the Godling as well and opened fire as the rest kept the monster busy.

The Godling raised his javelin and held it horizontally, creating a shimmering blue shield of static electricity in front of him. The bullets, when met by this shield, turned to dust on impact. For several seconds bullets whizzed through the air only to be destroyed by the shield, and Oliver held up his hand to call for a stop. Aside from the men fighting off the dragon, the gunfire ceased and Oliver stepped forward, "Give it up, Godling. Your friends are out, your dragon's half-blind and useless, and you're just plain outnumbered. Just make it easier for everyone, please?"

He had barely finished his sentence when the dragon's roar cut through the air. The metal monster must have heard him, because a particularly powerful torrent of flame reduced the few men left fighting it to ashes, and it turned to Oliver. Somehow it had managed to dig out the talon in it's eye, and it's remaining ruby shined like a scarlet spotlight. It came bounding across the battlefield, the ground shaking beneath it's fifty-ton footsteps. Oliver swore under his breath and jabbed a finger at the Godling, "Keep shooting! I'll deal with that!"

The mercenaries complied, and gunfire once again filled the air as Oliver faced the threat, fifty feet away. The Godling's shield was back up, and Oliver had to force himself to focus on the dragon so he didn't charge the blonde and leave his men open to dragonfire. Thirty feet away was the dragon, pounding across the field with strides as long as a man was tall. The cold-burn feeling, once a pleasant reminder of power, was starting to make his limbs feel numb, heavy. The back of his head began to throb, and his vision began to swim as the dragon neared ten feet away. It's jaws opened wide, napalm glowed in the back of it's throat and it's head reared back as it prepared to turn his bones to ash-

-only to be flung bodily to the side as a hole bigger than Oliver's head was suddenly ripped open in it's flank. A split-second later the soundwave hit him, a deep sub-bass _WHHOOMP_ that almost made Oliver's chest vibrate. His head whipped around to the origin, and a yell escaped his throat as _Schrödinger's_ immense bulk became visible in the distance. Kevin's voice crackled to life in his ear, distorted slightly through the snow and the distance, "Jesus boss, you leave us alone for ten minutes and everything goes to shit."

The dragon, now with a second gaping hole in it's torso, screeched in fury and tried to rise to it's feet, only to have a second shell rip off one of it's forelegs at the knee. The dragon slumped against the ground, no longer possessing the strength to hold itself up. It managed to get out one last, grating roar before the third and final shot landed square on it's head, and the basketball sized metal skull exploded in a shower of sparks and bits of shrapnel. The dragon's ruby eye landed a few feet away from Oliver's foot, flickering once, twice, three times before dying.

The mortal turned to the Godling, whose shocked expression was one Oliver thoroughly enjoyed. He cleared his throat as the mercenaries leveled their rifles at the blonde and said, "My offer stands, Godling. Only you can stop the bloodshed."

The blonde's eyes flicked from the mercenaries, to the dragon's dead metal body, to Oliver, to the King Tiger in the distance with it's cannon trained on him. Eventually he grimaced, threw down his weapons into the snow and spoke for the first time that Oliver could hear, "Fine. But you need to tell me what's going on."

Oliver gestured towards the Godling, and two of the Sons of Saturn stepped forward, locking his arms behind his back as Oliver said, "No, actually, I don't."

He nodded at one of the Sons, who in turn punched the Godling in the back of the head, knocking him out instantly. He pressed the radio at his ear and told Kevin, "Get the cars ready. We have the Godlings."


	10. Good News, and a Preface (AN(

It's over. I'm done with school. For those who care, I am going to be a Junior in high-school next year, and I am 17 right now. But this isn't the only thing that will be occupying my time, so the updates will probably be coming at the end of every other week at the latest. Or, whenever they get done. You guys should know by now that I'm shit at keeping a schedule. Ah well.

Also, I would like to preface something: From this point on in the story, I am going to start adding to and changing elements from the original Heroes of Olympus plot and world-building. Nothing too insane, but I can't be the only one who was super hyped with the 'Giant War' and was a little disappointed, right? I will also be adding in some aspects to the world that I have been brewing in my head, as well as some mostly original magical monsters, mechanics, etc.

This is where the timeline diverges, I guess would be the best way to describe it. Next chapter'll probably be up sometime during the weekend.

Thanks for reading this far and dealing with all my BS, and have a good morning/afternoon/evening.


	11. Hyde

(Sorry the huge delay/hiatus. Been going through some personal shit lately and haven't really had the time to sit down and write. But, I've gotten through the worst of it, so I should be able to continue the story with the same erratic updates that you guys love so much. Again, sorry for the sudden hiatus, but I'm back now. Let the story continue.)

The daughter of Aphrodite was dead. She lay sprawled out in a perverse, crimson snow angel. Oliver crouched over the body, lips pursed. The .45 round he had shot her with punched straight through her ribcage and popped her heart like a balloon. She was stone dead before she hit the ground. The snow was coming down harder now, in thick sheets that reduced visibility to a few feet in front of his nose. Her body would be covered in minutes. He sighed and rose to his feet, brushing the snow off of the front of his pants. Red-hot emotions washed through him; guilt, anger, self-loathing all came unbidden, and he turned away from the body, closing his eyes for a moment before walking back to his squad. It wasn't these feelings that made him afraid, however. It wasn't his anger or guilt or self-loathing that made his blood turn to ice with terror.

It was the part of him that felt good.

The Sons had lost half a dozen men to the dragon, another three suffering serious injuries, including Denali. The small man grimaced and leaned heavily for support on one of the mercenaries, nodding grimly at Oliver when their eyes met. He nodded back, mouth dry. The other two Godlings, both unconscious, had been bound and blindfolded and were being carried like sacks of potatoes by two of the burlier mercenaries. Nina looked weary, leaning on her staff, but gave a tired smile to Oliver when he looked at her.

Six casualties, seven including the Godling. He grimaced and pointed with two fingers towards Midas's compound, yelling to hear over the wind, "A squad, move out."

He received a chorus of confirmations, and the group began the trek back to the mansion. On the way there, Oliver attempted to contact Kevin through the radio. The device only squealed out distorted static, however. The storm was interfering. He sighed, shoved it back into its pocket and trudged ahead, keeping his still-living hand inside to keep it warm. He lost his G36c in the fight and now the only weapons he had on him were his compact .45 handgun, the Px4 Storm, in his shoulder holster, the knives in his wrist sheath and boot, and his bare hands.

It was enough for him.

The squad made it back to the mansion after about fifteen of marching in a semi-coherent group with Oliver at the lead. The spotlights set up by the Sons cut through the swirling mass of white with ease, lighting the way for the return group. The courtyard was in a controlled flurry of activity; the mercenaries rushed but did not run between taking down fortifications, loading up the vehicles and dealing with other logistical issues. Kevin's rather large head poked through Schrödinger's driver hatch, directing the men in front of the tank out of the way as he steered with surprising precision. The courtyard was filled with yelling, the smell of gun oil, and a dozen types of machines grinding in the bitter cold that had suddenly descended.

The injured mercenaries, Denali and the Godlings were taken to a makeshift medical tent and the back of one of the black vans, respectively. Nina, being the only one with serious medical capabilities, rushed around the comfy chairs pilfered from the mansion which the injured sat on. Her hair plastered to her forward with sweat as she bound wounds or cast spells of healing, illuminating the small tent with viridian light.

Oliver, after a moment of searching the chaos, waved Rosa over and pointed at the prisoner van, "Take three men and watch them," He ordered, his lips set in a grim line. "If they request anything reasonable, give it to them. If they talk, listen to them. If they try anything stupid, beat 'em until they stop trying. Clear?"

The muscular woman only nodded, returning the look, and strode across the courtyard with her shotgun resting on her shoulder, barking orders of her own. Oliver sighed and rubbed his temples, glancing around. He had a moment to himself. He found one of the Humvees they had taken from Fort Ignis and lit up one of his hand-rolled cigarettes, allowing himself a moment to breathe, and think. The battle flashed behind his eyelids in discoherent images, sounds, and feelings. Fear, anger, guilt, pride all warred within him and he sucked down the sweet, noxious smoke in an attempt to smother them. It didn't work.

He felt the presence before he saw or heard it. It began as it did before; a cold-burn feel in the back of his skull. Snow hung in the air, the wind stopped in place. All around him, men and women stopped in place, mid-stride or activity. This time, though, the pain flashed through his body in an instant and, before he could blink, Beowulf was standing before him once again, braided beard coated in frost, muscular arms crossed. His spectral blue form glowed softly.

A small smile was visible on his face, and he clapped softly, _Good job, Godkiller. You used my strength well. How did it feel?_

Oliver took another breath of smoke and tried to ignore his shaking hand, "What's going on? What's happening to me?"

The smile faded, and the clapping stopped as Beowulf looked at Oliver with an appraising look, _You're a bit of a downer, aren't you?_

Oliver's face soured, and he sighed smoke. After a few seconds, he replied, "I guess. Sorry. I'm just… confused, okay? I've been having visions, out of body experiences, experiencing feelings and powers that aren't my own, and now this," He gestured at Beowulf. "It's just… confusing."

The legend looked at Oliver for several, long minutes, staring at him with eyes as blue as glacial ice. Then, he nodded, _I understand how you feel. More than you know._ He pondered for a moment before a look entered his eyes that Oliver didn't recognize. _How much do you know of our order, Oliver Irons?_

Oliver looked at him sidelong, attempting to seize on any cue to his intentions. Beowulf's features were immaculately blank, however, and eventually, Oliver explained, "The basics. I was going to be properly inducted into the ranks at some point, but…" For a moment he was back in Vermont, the Hydra screaming above him as it tore into his home, but he snapped back quickly. "That never happened. I know we protected Mar- the Fire, for thousands of years. I know that at one point there were more of us, but that over time we were whittled down. I know that a long time ago, along with protecting the Fire, we helped fight off monsters and negotiate with emissaries from other pantheons, since we share common ground with most of them." He swallowed hard and threw his cigarette into the snow. "And I know that we're the last of us."

As Oliver talked, Beowulf watched him with keen interest and ice-blue eyes. Then after Oliver was done he nodded, apparently satisfied. He turned around and folded his arms behind his back, turning his face up to the dark gray sky, _Indeed. Our order was once dedicated to protecting the mortal world, like the Demigods of today. Only, most of them did not have the luxury of fantastical powers and parents who could be persuaded to cause an earthquake or call down lightning._ At this Beowulf glanced back at Oliver. _They had us_.

Oliver felt his stomach drop in fear and confusion. "What do you mean, 'us'?" He asked. After Beowulf remained silent, he took two long steps forward and spun Beowulf around, grabbed his shoulders and demanded, "What do you mean, 'us'?"

But the specter just gave a small, bitter smile and shook his head, saying, _I wish I could give you the answers you seek, Keeper, I truly do, but the Old Laws prohibit my speaking of them. I suggest you seek out the console of Prometheus. He can lead you to the answers you seek._

And then Beowulf began to glow a dark azure, before shattering into ice and falling to the ground, cutting grooves into the deep snow. Time resumed abruptly, snow whipping at his face, wind cutting through him like a blade. Oliver clenched his fist and barely stopped a yell of frustration. Questions churned and crashed in his head like violent waves as he tried to pull together what information he could, with no luck. Pain gripped his arm, and when he reached down to rub the muscles he realized the feeling was in the left arm. His fingers met only the hard, tightly bound Imperial Gold threads that moved and felt like his own flesh and blood. Phantom pain.

With a shuddering breath Oliver got the pain under control, the cold air burning his lungs and helping him refocus, adjusting the glove he wore on it subconsciously. He glanced around the courtyard, seeing the mercenaries finish packing up the equipment they had brought, loading up sandbags and heavy weapons into the Humvees and SUVs, warming the vehicle engines in preparation to leave. He saw a short, gold-clad figure standing in the window of the mansion, who waved at Oliver once he noticed him. Midas. After a moment, he disappeared from sight.

He brought his radio to his mouth and spoke into the open channel, telling his little strikeforce, "Be ready to move in five. I'm gonna go thank our host for letting up stay here, then we go home."

A short chorus of affirmations buzzed in his radio, and he crossed the courtyard with his long strides, occasionally dodging out of the way of mercenaries laden down with heavy gear. He reached the door and, taking one look back out at the chaos of the courtyard, stepped inside, mouth set in a thin line.

One last bit of unpleasant business to conclude.

The main hall wasn't any different from when Oliver had seen it earlier. The rows of people-turned-statues frozen in horrified positions. He had to make a conscious effort not to look at the frozen face of Midas's daughter, blood hot in his veins when he looked anyway. The lights made the room shine in a brilliant fashion, the wind outside howling like beasts clawing at the door. Midas was lounging on his throne-like chair in the middle of the room, eating from a golden plate with golden silverware (goldware?), with his son leaning against the wall, twirling his sword around his fingers.

The dead king smiled at Oliver as he entered, waving at him with a bit of sausage on the end of the fork, calling from across the room, "Well done, Godkiller! From all of the gunfire and explosions and screaming, I gather you had been successful?"

Oliver continued walking, left hand clenching and unclenching behind his back as he simply nodded. Well done, he had said, good job at killing an innocent girl and getting his own men killed. The guilt came back in a hot wave, the rage and self-hate only a second after. Midas kept talking, asking rhetorical, pointless questions to his son who answered with one or two words each time, seemingly not paying attention to the look on Oliver's face, or the way he looked at the statues that lined the hall, studying the looks of horror etched into their perfect golden forms.

Oliver stopped at the foot of Midas's throne, left hand clenched into a tight fist behind his back, his right held up to his chest as he gave a shallow bow, "Thank you, Midas," he said, his voice tight and controlled. "For letting us use your property."

Midas smiled smugly and waved his fork in a dismissive gesture, the bit of sausage flying off and plopping onto the perfect gold floor. Midas said, "Oh, it's of no-"

Oliver cut him off, "And thank you for showing me what this whole excursion was really about. I've figured it out, even if you haven't." He rose, an unreadable look in his strange glassy eyes, as he extended his left hand out from behind his back, the gloved fingers no longer curled into a fist, instead into a flat, open gesture.

Midas frowned, seemingly annoyed about being cut-off but intrigued at the curious gesture. He looked up at Oliver, trying to read him through squinted eyes. After a few fruitless seconds, he asked, "What are you getting at, Godkiller? What have you discovered?"

Oliver explained slowly, careful in his phrasing, "It's a test, Midas. From Gaea. For me," he extended his hand a little further, nodding at it, "And now, it's a test for you."

Midas looked at him suspiciously, but Oliver saw into his eyes, saw the greed and pride that clawed their way to the top, shoving down the caution and warning. Oliver as seen eyes like these before. Eyes of someone who cares only for themselves, who will do anything to get what they want, step on the heads of anyone below them, rip down anyone above them.

Who deserve everything that's coming to them.

Liteyres began to say something, maybe a warning, but the king shushed him with one hand. Midas smiled at Oliver and said, "You mean to tell me that Gaea gave me the opportunity to add the Godkiller to my collection? You call that a test, Oliver Irons?" With surprising speed he grasped onto Oliver's hand, smiling with yellowing teeth, "It's a gift."

The golden touch spread up the glove that Oliver wore, turning the black fabric a brilliant yellow. And it stopped there. Midas looked down, confused, then back up to Oliver's face, mind racing to find a solution when he realized the hand he felt was not flesh and blood. His eyes opened in shock and terror, and his mouth opened to spew something pointless.

Oliver took one step forward, drew the knife from the sheath on his left arm, and buried it hilt-deep up through Midas's throat, where his jaw connected to his throat. His body twitched as the six-inch blade bit into his spine, and his eyes took on the look of a terrified animal, wild and unfocused as his free hand desperately tried to fight Oliver off. His powers appeared to have faded, however, and the temporary contacts only succeeded in turning patches of his camouflage into gaudy yellow patterns. Oliver jerked the knife, Midas's body jerked violently, and he fell still, his eyes open and unseeing, head lolled back against his perfect, gilded throne.

Lityerses screamed something in Greek as his father's body slumped into the throne, charging up the dais with his sword held high. Oliver stepped backwards, leaving his knife inside Midas's neck, and brought up his handgun to put three .45 slugs into the man's chest in quick succession, the gunshots echoing violently around the metal-coated chamber. His sword clattered to the ground, his body following shortly after.

Mercenaries kicked down the door, rifles raised and ready, as Oliver was cleaning his knife with a small gold tablecloth. Thorn was at the head, needle-like teeth bared as he scanned the room. Seeing only Oliver and the two dead bodies, he frowned and asked, "Commandant, what happened?"

Oliver tossed the bloody cloth aside and sheathed the knife, nodding at the golden statues, "Do you know how to turn them back?"

Thorn blinked at Oliver, "Uh, running water, if I remember the story. But, what-"

Oliver cut him off again, "Then find a river or hose or something to help them. Midas must have something like that around here. When you do, give them warm clothes and the option to come with us. If they take it, we'll give them a home and a place to work at Fort Ignis. Understand?"

Thorn's mouth opened, a shocked look crossing his face, finding his voice as Oliver began to walk away, "But, sir, what happened? Why did you kill him?"

Oliver stopped at the door. He looked over his shoulder at the little girl, her face etched in terror, frozen in the moment that forces beyond her control changed her life, made it worse. He turned to Thorn and answered, "He failed his test. I passed mine."

With that Oliver stepped back into the cold night, the feelings of anger and guilt and self-loathing tamed, if only for the moment.

It was time to go home.


End file.
